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Library  of  the 
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Endowed  by  the  Dialectic  and  Pliilan- 
thropic  Societies. 


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This  BOOK  may  be  kept  out  TWO  WEEKS 
ONLY,    and    is    subject    to    a    fine    of    FIVE 
CENTS  a  day  thereafter.   It  was  feekgn-^OTrrTm" 
tlifi.jSijt-Hi^ieated  beTo'?^: 


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11  Apr '42 


Lib.  lOM-Fe  '38 


THE  MOUNTAIN  GIRL 


)^v-iC^v>C'\   %i'-'^A 


"  We  will  go  home -to  my  home- Jus  f  like  tliis^  iogrfher^ 
Frontispiece.     See  Page  311. 


THE  MOUNTAIN  GIRL 


BY 

PAYNE   ERSKINE 

AUTHOE   OF    "when   THE    GATES    LIFT   UP   THEIK   PllEADS " 


WITH  ILLUSTRATIONS  BY 
J.   DUNCAN   GLEASON 


BOSTON 
LITTLE,  BROWN,  AND  COMPANY 

1912 


Copyright,  1911,  1912, 
By    little,   brown,   AND  COMPANY. 


All  rights  reserved. 


Published,  March,  1912 
Reprinted,  March,  1912  (five  times) 


S.  J.  Pabkhill  &  Co.,  BOSTOK,  U.S.A. 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PASB 

I.     In  which  David  Thryng  arrives  at  Carew's  Cross- 
ing       1 

n.     In  which  David  Thryng  experiences  the  Hospi- 

tahty  of  the  Mountain  People    ....       10 

ni.     In   which  Aunt  Sally  takes   her   Departure   and 

meets  Frale .25 

IV.     David  spends  his  First  Day  at  his  Cabin,  and  Frale 

makes  his  Confession  .....       35 

V.     In  which  Cassandra  goes  to  David  with  her  Trouble, 

and  gives  Frale  her  Promise        ....       47 

VI.     In  which  David  aids  Frale  to  make  his  Escape       .  59 
Vn.     In  which  Frale  goes  down  to  Farington  in  his  own 

Way 68 

Vlll.     In  which  David  Thryng  makes  a  Discovery  .         .  76 

IX.     In   which   David   accompanies   Cassandra   on  an 

Errand  of  Mercy 86 

X.     In  which  Cassandra  and  David  visit  the  Home  of 

Decatur  Irwin 94 

XI.     In  which  Spring   comes   to   the  Mountains,  and 

Cassandra  tells  David  of  her  Father  .         .         .103 

Xn.     In  which  Cassandra  hears  the  Voices,  and  David 

leases  a  Farm Ill 

XIII.  In  which  David  discovers  Cassandra's  Trouble       .     120 

XIV.  In  which  David  visits  the  Bishop,  and  Frale  sees 

his  Enemy  .......     131 

XV.  In  which  Jerry  Carew  gives  David  his  Views  on 
Future  Punishment,  and  Little  Hoyle  pays  him 
a  Visit  and  is  made  Happy         ....     144 

V 


VI 


Contents 


CHAPTER 

XVI. 


XVII. 

XVIII. 

XIX. 

XX. 

XXI. 

XXII. 
XXIII. 
XXIV. 

XXV. 
XXVI. 

XXVII. 

XXVIII. 
XXIX. 

XXX. 

XXXI. 
XXXII. 


PAGE 

In  which  Frale  returns  and  listens  to  the  Com- 
plaints of  Decatur  Irwin's  Wife     .         .         .     152 

In  which  David  Thryng  meets  an  Enemy  .     164 

In  which  David  Thryng  Awakes        .         .         .172 

In  which  David  sends  Hoke  Belew  on  a  Com- 
mission, and  Cassandra  makes  a  Confession       180 

In  which  the   Bishop   and  his  Wife  pass   an 
Eventful  Day  at  the  Fall  Place     .         .         .189 

In  which  the  Summer  Passes     .         .         .         .198 

In  which  David  takes  little  Hoyle  to  Canada   .     207 

In  which  Doctor  Hoyle  speaks  his  Mind  .         .     212 

In  which  David  Thrjug  has  News  from  Eng- 
land        218 

In  which  David  Thryng  visits  his  Mother         .     224 

In  which  David  Thryng  adjusts  his  Life  to 
New  Conditions 234 

In  which  the  Old  Doctor  and  Little  Hoyle  come 
back  to  the  Mountains  ....     244 

In  which  Frale  returns  to  the  Mountains  .     253 

In  which  Cassandra  visits  David  Thryng's 
Ancestors      .......     265 

In  which  Cassandra  goes  to  Queensderry  and 
takes  a  Drive  in  a  Pony  Carriage  .         .     276 

In  which  David  and  his  Mother  do  not  Agree  .     288 

In  which  Cassandra  brings  the  Heir  of  Danes- 
head  Castle  back  to  her  Hilltop,  and  the 
Shadow  Lifts         .        .        .        .        .         .300 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 


"We  will  go  home  —  to  my  home — just  like 

THIS,  together  " Frontispiece 

*' Casabianca,  was  it?"  said  Thryng,  smiling     Page    17 

Skulking  and  hiding   by   day,   and    strug- 
gling ON  again  by  night  .         .         .         .        "       70 

It   seemed  to  him   that   music   must   come 

FROM    the    flow    OF    HER    ACTION  .  .  "       106 

"  i  take    it    back back    from    god the 

promise  i  gave  you  there  by  the  fall  '*        "     171 

Cassandra    stood    silent,   quivering    like 

ONE     of     her     own     mountain     CREATURES 

BROUGHT    TO    BAY "       286 


THE   MOUNTAIN   GIEL 


CHAPTER  I 

IN   WHICH   DAVID   THRYNG   ARRIVES   AT   CAREW's   CROSSING 

The  snow  had  ceased  falling.  No  wind  stirred  among 
the  trees  that  covered  the  hillsides,  and  every  shrub,  every 
leaf  and  twig,  still  bore  its  feathery,  white  load.  Slowly 
the  train  labored  upward,  with  two  engines  to  take  it  the 
steepest  part  of  the  climb  from  the  valley  below.  David 
Thrjmg  gazed  out  into  the  quiet,  white  wilderness  and 
was  glad.  He  hoped  Carew's  Crossing  was  not  beyond  all 
this,  where  the  ragged  edge  of  civilization,  out  of  which  the 
toiling  train  had  so  lately  lifted  them,  would  begin  again. 

He  glanced  from  time  to  time  at  the  young  woman  near 
the  door  who  sat  as  the  bishop  had  left  her,  one  slight  hand 
grasping  the  handle  of  her  basket,  and  with  an  expression 
on  her  face  as  placid  and  fraught  with  mystery  as  the  scene 
without.  The  train  began  to  crawl  more  heavily,  and, 
looking  down,  Thryng  saw  that  they  were  crossing  a  trestle 
over  a  deep  gorge  before  skirting  the  mountain  on  the 
other  side.  Suddenly  it  occurred  to  him  that  he  might  be 
carried  beyond  his  station.  He  stopped  the  smiling  young 
brakeman  who  was  passing  with  his  flag. 

'*Let  me  know  when  we  come  to  Carew's  Crossing,  will 

you?" 

"Next  stop,  suh.     Are  you  foh  there,  suh.^^" 

"Yes.     How  soon?" 

"Half  an  houh  mo',  suh.  I'll  be  back  d'rectly  and  help 
you  off,  suh.  It's  a  flag  station.  We  don't  stop  there 
in  winter  'thout  we're  called  to,  suh.  Hotel's  closed 
now." 

"Hotel  ?  Is  there  a  hotel  ? "  Thryng's  voice  betokened 
dismay. 

"Yes,  suh.  It's  a  right  gay  little  place  in  summah, 
suh."     He  passed  on,  and  Thryng  gathered  his  scattered 


2  The  Mountain  Girl 

effects.  Ill  and  weary,  he  was  glad  to  find  his  long  jour- 
ney so  nearly  at  an  end. 

On  either  side  of  the  track,  as  far  as  eye  could  see,  was 
a  snow-whitened  wilderness,  seemingly  untouched  by  the 
hand  of  man,  and  he  felt  as  if  he  had  been  carried  back  two 
hundred  years.  The  only  hint  that  these  fastnesses  had 
been  invaded  by  human  beings  was  an  occasional  rough, 
deeply  red  wagon  road,  winding  off  among  the  hills. 

The  long  trestle  crossed,  the  engines  labored  slowly 
upward  for  a  time,  then,  turning  a  sharp  curve,  began  to 
descend,  tearing  along  the  narrow  track  with  a  speed  that 
caused  the  coaches  to  rock  and  sway;  and  thus  they 
reached  Carew's  Crossing,  dropping  down  to  it  like  a  rush- 
ing torrent. 

Immediately  Thryng  found  himself  deposited  in  the 
melting  snow  some  distance  from  the  station  platform,  and 
at  the  same  instant,  above  the  noise  of  the  retreating  train, 
he  heard  a  cry  :  *'0h,  suh,  help  him,  help  him  !  It's  poor 
little  Hoyle ! "  The  girl  whom  he  had  watched,  and 
about  whom  he  had  been  wondering,  flashed  by  him  and 
caught  at  the  bridle  of  a  fractious  colt,  that  was  rearing 
and  plunging  near  the  corner  of  the  station. 

"Poor  little  Hoyle!  Help  him,  suh,  help  him!"  she 
cried,  clinging  desperately,  while  the  frantic  animal  swung 
her  off  her  feet,  close  to  the  flying  heels  of  the  kicking  mule 
at  his  side. 

Under  the  heavy  vehicle  to  which  the  ill-assorted  ani- 
mals were  attached,  a  child  lay  unconscious,  and  David 
sprang  forward,  his  weakness  forgotten  in  the  demand  for 
action.  In  an  instant  he  had  drawn  the  little  chap  from 
his  perilous  position  and,  seizing  the  mule,  succeeded  in 
backing  him  to  his  place.  The  cause  of  its  fright  having 
by  this  time  disappeared,  the  colt  became  tractable  and 
stood  quivering  and  snorting,  as  David  took  the  bridle 
from  the  girl's  hand. 

"I'll  quiet  them  now,"  he  said,  and  she  ran  to  the  boy, 
who  had  recovered  sufficiently  to  sit  up  and  gaze  in  a  dazed 
way  about  him.  As  she  bent  over  him,  murmuring  sooth- 
ing words,  he  threw  his  arms  around  her  neck  and  burst 
into  wild  sobbing. 

"There,  honey,  there  !  No  one  is  hurt.  You  are  not, 
are  you,  honey  son?" 


David  Thryng  Arrives  3 

"I  couldn't  keep  a  holt  of  'em,'*  he  sobbed. 

"You  shouldn't  have  done  it,  honey.  You  should  have 
let  me  get  home  as  best  I  could."  Her  face  was  one 
which  could  express  much,  passive  as  it  had  been  before. 
"Where  was  Frale.?" 

"He  took  the  othah  ho'se  and  lit  out.  They  was  aftah 
him.     They — " 

"S-sh.  There,  hush  !  You  can  stand  now;  try,  Hoyle. 
You  are  a  man  now." 

The  little  fellow  rose,  and,  perceiving  Thryng  for  the 
first  time,  stepped  shyly  behind  his  sister.  David  noticed 
that  he  had  a  deformity  which  caused  him  to  carry  his 
head  twisted  stiffly  to  one  side,  and  also  that  he  had  great, 
beautiful  brown  eyes,  so  like  those  of  a  hunted  fawn  as 
he  turned  them  upon  the  stranger  with  wide  appeal,  that 
he  seemed  a  veritable  creature  of  the  wilderness  by  which 
they  were  surrounded. 

Then  the  girl  stepped  forward  and  thanked  him  with 
voice  and  eyes;  but  he  scarcely  understood  the  words  she 
said,  as  her  tones  trailed  lingeringly  over  the  vowels,  and 
almost  eliminated  the  "r,"  so  lightly  was  it  touched, 
while  her  accent  fell  utterly  strange  upon  his  English  ear. 
She  looked  to  the  harness  with  practised  eye,  and  then 
laid  her  hand  beside  Thryng's,  on  the  bridle.  It  was  a 
strong,  shapely  hand  and  wrist. 

"I  can  manage  now,"  she  said.  "Hoyle,  get  my  basket 
foh  me." 

But  Thryng  suggested  that  she  climb  in  and  take  the 
reins  first,  although  the  animals  stood  quietly  enough  now ; 
the  mule  looked  even  dejected,  with  hanging  head  and 
forward-drooping  ears. 

The  girl  spoke  gently  to  the  colt,  stroking  him  along  the 
side  and  murmuring  to  him  in  a  cooing  voice  as  she 
mounted  to  the  high  seat  and  gathered  up  the  reins.  Then 
the  two  beasts  settled  themselves  to  their  places  with  a 
wontedness  that  assured  Thryng  they  would  be  perfectly 
manageable  under  her  hand. 

David  turned  to  the  child,  relieved  him  of  the  basket, 
which  was  heavy  with  unusual  weight,  and  would  have 
lifted  him  up,  but  Hoyle  eluded  his  grasp,  and,  scrambling 
over  the  wheel  with  catlike  agility,  slipped  shyly  into  his 
place  close  to  the  girl's  side.     Then,  with  more  than  child- 


V 


4  The  Mountain  Girl 

like  thoughtfulness,  the  boy  looked  up  into  her  face  and 
said  in  a  low  voice  :  — 

*'The  gen'l'man's  things  is  ovah  yandah  by  the  track, 
Cass.  He  cyant  tote  'em  alone,  I  reckon.  Whar  is  he 
goin'?" 

Then  Thryng  remembered  himself  and  his  needs.  He 
looked  at  the  line  of  track  curving  away  up  the  mountain 
side  in  one  direction,  and  in  the  other  lost  in  a  deep  cut 
in  the  hills ;  at  the  steep  red  banks  rising  high  on  each 
side,  arched  over  by  leafy  forest  growth,  with  all  the  in- 
terlacing branches  and  smallest  twigs  bearing  their  deli- 
cate burden  of  white,  feathery  snow.  He  caught  his 
breath  as  a  sense  of  the  strange,  untamed  beauty,  mar- 
vellous and  utterly  lonely,  struck  upon  him.  Beyond  the 
tracks,  high  up  on  the  mountain  slope,  he  thought  he 
spied,  well-nigh  hid  from  sight  by  the  pines,  the  gambrel 
roof  of  a  large  building  —  or  was  it  a  snow-covered  rock  ? 

*'Is  that  a  house  up  there  .f^"  he  asked,  turning  to  the 
girl,  who  sat  leaning  forward  and  looking  steadily  down  at 
him. 

"That  is  the  hotel.'* 

"A  road  must  lead  to  it,  then.  If  I  could  get  up  there, 
I  could  send  down  for  my  things." 

*'They  is  no  one  thar,"  piped  the  boy;  and  Thryng 
remembered  the  brakeman's  words,  and  how  he  had  re- 
belled at  the  thought  of  a  hotel  incongruously  set  amid  this 
primeval  beauty;  but  now  he  longed  for  the  comfort  of  a 
warm  room  and  tea  at  a  hospitable  table.  He  wished  he 
had  accepted  the  bishop's  invitation.  It  was  a  predica- 
ment to  be  dropped  in  this  wild  spot,  without  a  store,  a 
cabin,  or  even  a  thread  of  blue  smoke  to  be  seen  as  in- 
dicating a  human  habitation,  and  no  soul  near  save  these 
two  children. 

The  sun  was  sinking  toward  the  western  hilltops,  and 
a  chillness  began  creeping  about  him  as  the  shadows 
lengthened  across  the  base  of  the  mountain,  leaving  only 
the  heights  in  the  glowing  light. 

"  Really,  you  know,  I  can't  say  what  I  am  to  do.  I'm 
a  stranger  here  —  " 

It  seemed  odd  to  him  at  the  moment,  but  her  face, 
framed  in  the  huge  sunbonnet,  —  a  delicate  flower  set 
in  a  rough    calyx,  —  suddenly  lost  all  expression.     She 


David  Thryng  Arrives  5 

did  not  move  nor  open  her  lips.  Thryng  thought  he 
detected  a  look  of  fear  in  the  boy's  eyes,  as  he  crept  closer 
to  her. 

In  a  flash  came  to  him  the  realization  of  the  difficulty. 
His  friend  had  told  him  of  these  people,  —  their  occupa- 
tions, their  fear  of  the  world  outside  and  below  their  fast- 
nesses, and  how  zealously  they  guarded  their  homes  and 
their  rights  from  outside  intrusion,  yet  how  hospitable 
and  generous  they  were  to  all  who  could  not  be  considered 
their  hereditary  enemies. 

He  hastened  to  speak  reassuring  words,  and,  bethinking 
himself  that  she  had  called  the  boy  Hoyle,  he  explained 
how  one  Adam  Hoyle  had  sent  him. 

"The  doctor  is  my  friend,  you  know.  He  built  a  cabin 
somewhere  within  a  day's  walk,  he  told  me,  of  Carew's 
Crossing,  on  a  mountain  top.     Maybe  you  knew  him  .^" 

A  slight  smile  crept  about  the  girl's  lips,  and  her  eyes 
brightened.     "Yes,  suh,  we-all  know  Doctah  Hoyle." 

"I  am  to  have  the  cabin  —  if  I  can  find  it  —  live  there 
as  he  did,  and  see  what  your  hills  will  do  for  me."  He 
laughed  a  little  as  he  spoke,  deprecating  his  evident  weak- 
ness, and,  lifting  his  cap,  wiped  the  cold  moisture  from 
his  forehead. 

She  noted  his  fatigue  and  hesitated.  The  boy's  question- 
ing eyes  were  fixed  on  her  face,  and  she  glanced  down  into 
them  ^  an  answering  look.  Her  lips  parted,  and  her  eyes 
glowed  as  she  turned  them  again  on  David,  but  she  spoke 
still  in  the  same  passive  monotone. 

"Oh,  yes.  My  little  brothah  was  named  foh  him, — 
Adam  Hoyle,  —  but  we  only  call  him  Hoyle.  It's  a  right 
long  spell  since  the  Doctah  was  heah.  His  cabin  is  right 
nigh  us,  a  little  highah  up.  Theah  is  no  place  wheah  you 
could  stop  nighah  than  ouahs.  Hoyle,  jump  out  and  help 
fetch  his  things  ovah.  You  can  put  them  in  the  back  of 
the  wagon,  suh,  and  ride  up  with  us.  I  have  a  sight  of 
room  foh  them." 

The  child  was  out  and  across  the  tracks  in  an  instant, 
seizing  a  valise  much  too  hea\'y  for  him,  and  Thryng  cut 
his  thanks  short  to  go  to  his  relief. 

"I  kin  tote  it,"  said  the  boy  shrilly. 

"No,  no.  I  am  the  biggest,  so  I'll  take  the  big  ones. 
You  bring  the  bundle  with  the  strap  around  it  —  so. 


6  The  Mountain  Girl 

Now  we  shall  get  on,  shan't  we  ?  But  you  are  pretty 
strong  for  a  little  chap;"  and  the  child's  face  radiated 
smiles  at  the  praise. 

Then  David  tossed  in  valise  and  rug,  without  which  last 
no  Englishman  ever  goes  on  a  journey,  and  with  much 
effort  they  managed  to  pull  the  box  along  and  hoist  it 
also  into  the  wagon,  the  body  of  which  was  filled  with  corn 
fodder,  covered  with  an  old  patchwork  quilt. 

The  wagon  was  of  the  rudest,  clumsiest  construction, 
the  heavy  box  set  on  axles  without  springs,  but  the  young 
physician  was  thankful  for  any  kind  of  a  conveyance. 
He  had  been  used  to  life  in  the  wild,  taking  things  as 
he  found  them  —  bunking  in  a  tent,  a  board  shanty,  or 
out  under  the  open  sky;  with  men  brought  heterogene- 
ously  together,  some  merely  rough  woodsmen  in  their 
natural  environment,  others  the  scum  of  the  cities  to  whom 
crime  was  become  first  nature,  decency  second,  and  others, 
fleeing  from  justice  and  civilized  law,  hiding  ofttimes  a 
fine  nature  delicately  reared.  During  this  time  he  had 
seldom  seen  a  woman  other  than  an  occasional  camp  fol- 
lower of  the  most  degraded  sort. 

Inured  thus,  he  did  not  find  his  ride,  embedded  with 
good  corn  fodder,  much  of  a  hardship,  even  in  a  springless 
wagon  over  mountain  roads.  Wrapped  in  his  rug,  he 
braced  himself  against  his  box,  with  his  face  toward  the 
rear  of  the  wagon,  and  gazed  out  from  under  its  arching 
canvas  hood  at  the  wild  way,  as  it  slowly  unrolled  behind 
them,  and  was  pleased  that  he  did  not  have  to  spend  the 
night  under  the  lee  of  the  station. 

The  lingering  sunlight  made  fiaming  banners  of  the  snow 
clouds  now  slowly  drifting  across  the  sky  above  the  white 
world,  and  touched  the  highest  peaks  with  rose  and  gold. 
The  shadows,  ever  changing,  deepened  from  faintest  pink- 
mauve  through  heliotrope  tints,  to  the  richest  violet  in 
the  heart  of  the  gorges.  Over  and  through  all  was  the 
witching  mystery  of  fairy-like,  snow-wreathed  branches 
and  twigs,  interwoven  and  arching  up  and  up  in  faint  per- 
spective to  the  heights  above,  and  down,  far  down,  to 
the  depths  of  the  regions  below  them;  and  all  the  time, 
mingled  with  the  murmur  of  the  voices  behind  him, 
and  the  creaking  of  the  vehicle  in  which  they  rode,  and  the 
tramp  of  the  animals  when  they  came  to  a  hard  roadbed 


David  Thryng  Arrives  TJ 

with  rock  foundation,  —  noises  which  were  not  loud,  but 
which  seemed  to  be  covered  and  subdued  by  the  soft  snow 
even  as  it  covered  everything,  —  could  be  heard  a  Hght 
dropping  and  pattering,  as  the  overladen  last  year's  leaves 
and  twigs  dropped  their  white  burden  to  the  ground. 
Sometimes  the  great  hood  of  the  wagon  struck  an  over- 
hanging bough  and  sent  the  snow  down  in  showers  as 
they  passed. 

Heavily  they  climbed  up,  and  warily  made  their  descent 
of  rocky  steeps,  passing  through  boggy  places  or  splashing 
in  clear  streams  which  issued  from  springs  in  the  mountain 
side  or  fell  from  some  distant  height,  then  climbing  again 
only  to  wind  about  and  again  descend.  Often  the  way  was 
rough  with  boulders  that  had  never  been  blasted  out,  — ■ 
sometimes  steeply  shelving  where  the  gorge  was  deepest 
and  the  precipice  sheerest.  Past  all  dangers  the  girl  drove 
with  skilful  hand,  now  encouraging  her  team  with  her 
low  voice,  now  restraining  them,  where  their  load  crowded 
upon  them  over  slippery,  shelving  rocks,  with  strong  pulls 
and  sharp  command.  David  marvelled  at  her  serenity 
under  the  strain,  and  at  her  courage  and  deftness.  With 
the  calmness  of  the  boy  nestling  at  her  side,  he  resigned  him- 
self to  the  sweet  witchery  of  the  time  and  place.  Glanc- 
ing up  at  the  high  seat  behind  him,  he  saw  the  child's  feet 
dangling,  and  knew  they  must  be  cold. 

"Why  can't  your  little  brother  sit  back  here  with  me  V 
he  said;  "I'll  cover  him  mth  my  rug,  and  we'll  keep  each 
other  warm." 

He  saw  the  small  hunched  back  stiffen,  and  try  to  appear 
big  and  manly,  but  she  checked  the  team  at  a  level  dip  in 
the  road. 

"Yes,  sonny,  get  ovah  theah  with  the  gentleman. 
It'll  be  some  coldah  now  the  sun's  gone."  But  the  little 
man  was  shyly  reluctant  to  move.  "Come,  honey. 
Sistah'd  a  heap  rathah  you  would." 

Then  David,  reached  up  and  gently  lifted  the  atom  of 
manhood,  of  pride,  sensitiveness,  and  affection,  over  where 
he  caused  him  to  snuggle  down  in  the  fodder  close  to  his 
side. 

For  a  while  the  child  sat  stiffly  aloof,  but  gradually  his 
little  form  relaxed,  and  his  head  drooped  sideways  in  the 
hollow  of  the  stranger's  shoulder,  held  comfortably  by 


8  The  Mountain  Girl 

Thryng's  kindly  encircling  arm.  Soon,  with  his  small  feet 
wrapped  in  the  w^arm,  soft  rug,  he  slept  soundly  and  sweetly, 
rocked,  albeit  rather  roughly,  in  the  jolting  wagon. 

Thryng  also  dreamed,  but  not  in  sleep.  His  mind  was 
stirred  to  unusual  depths  by  his  strange  surroundings  — 
the  silence,  the  mystery,  the  beauty  of  the  night,  and  the 
suggestions  of  grandeur  and  power  dimly  revealed  by  the 
moonlight  which  bathed  the  world  in  a  flood  of  glory. 

He  was  uplifted  and  drawn  out  of  himself,  and  at  the 
same  time  he  was  thrown  back  to  review  his  life  and  to 
see  his  most  inward  self,  and  to  marvel  and  question  the 
wherefore  of  it  all.  Why  was  he  here,  away  from  the  ac- 
tive, practical  affairs  which  interest  other  men  ?  Was  he 
a  creature  of  ideals  only,  or  was  he  also  a  practical  man, 
taking  the  wisest  means  of  reaching  and  achieving  results 
most  worth  while  ?  He  saw  himself  in  his  childhood  — 
in  his  youth  —  in  his  young  manhood  —  even  to  the 
present  moment,  jogging  slowly  along  in  a  far  country, 
rough  and  wild,  utterly  dependent  on  the  courtesy  of  a 
slight  girl,  who  held,  for  the  moment,  his  life  in  her  hands; 
for  often,  as  he  gazed  into  the  void  of  darkness  over  nar- 
row ledges,  he  knew  that  only  the  skill  of  those  two  small 
hands  kept  them  from  sliding  into  eternity :  yet  there  was 
about  her  such  an  air  of  wontedness  to  the  situation  that 
he  was  stirred  by  no  sense  of  anxiety  for  himself  or  for  her. 

He  took  out  his  pipe  and  smoked,  still  dreaming,  com- 
paring, and  questioning.  Of  ancient  family,  yet  the 
younger  son  of  three  generations  of  younger  sons,  all  prob- 
ability of  great  inheritance  or  title  so  far  removed  from 
him,  it  behooved  that  he  build  for  himself  —  what.f^ 
Fortune,  name,  everything.  Character  ?  Ah,  that  was 
his  heritage,  all  the  heritage  the  laws  of  England  allowed 
him,  and  that  not  by  right  of  English  law,  but  because, 
fixed  in  the  immutable,  eternal  Will,  some  laws  there  are 
beyond  the  power  of  man  to  supersede.  With  an  invol- 
untary stiffening  of  his  body,  he  disturbed  for  an  instant 
the  slumbering  child,  and  quite  as  involuntarily  he  drew 
him  closer  and  soothed  him  back  to  forgetfulness;  and 
they  both  dreamed  on,  the  child  in  his  sleep,  and  the  man 
in  his  wide  wakefulness  and  intense  searching. 

His  uncle,  it  is  true,  would  have  boosted  him  far  toward 
creating  both  name  and  fame  for  himself,  in  either  army 


David  Thryng  Arrives  9 

or  navy,  but  lie  would  none  of  it.  There  was  his  older 
brother  to  be  advanced,  and  the  younger  son  of  this  same 
uncle  to  be  placed  in  life,  or  married  to  wealth.  This  also 
he  might  have  done ;  well  married  he  might  have  been 
ere  now,  and  could  be  still,  for  she  was  waiting  —  only  — 
an  ideal  stood  in  his  way.  Whom  he  would,  marry  he 
would  love.  Not  merely  respect  or  like, — not  even  both,  — 
but  love  he  must ;  and  in  order  to  hold  to  this  ideal  he 
must  fly  the  country,  or  remain  to  be  unduly  urged  to  his 
own  discomfiture  and  possibly  to  their  mutual  undoing. 

As  for  the  alternatives,  the  army  or  the  navy,  again  his 
ideals  had  formed  for  him  impassable  bars.  He  would 
found  his  career  on  the  sa\'ing  rather  than  the  taking  of 
life.  Perhaps  he  might  yet  follow  in  the  wake  of  armies 
to  mend  bodies  they  have  torn  and  cut  and  maimed,  and 
heal  diseases  they  have  engendered  —  yes  —  perhaps  — 
the  ideals  loomed  big.  But  what  had  he  done  ?  Fled 
his  country  and  deftly  avoided  the  most  heart-satisfying 
of  human  delights  —  children  to  call  him  father,  and  wife 
to  make  him  a  home ;  peace  and  wealth ;  thrust  aside  the 
helping  hand  to  power  and  a  career  considered  most  worthy 
of  a  strong  and  resourceful  man,  and  thrown  personal 
ambition  to  the  winds.  Why  ?  Because  of  his  ideals  — 
preferring  to  mend  rather  than  to  mar  his  neighbor. 

Surely  he  was  right  —  and  yet  —  and  yet.  What  had 
he  accomplished  ?  Taken  the  making  of  his  life  into  his 
own  hands  and  lost  —  all  —  if  health  were  really  gone. 
One  thing  remained  to  him  —  the  last  rag  and  remnant 
of  his  cherished  ideals  —  to  live  long  enough  to  triumph 
over  his  own  disease  and  take  up  work  again.  Why 
should  he  succumb  ?  Was  it  fate  ?  Was  there  the  guid- 
ance of  a  higher  will  ?  Might  he  reach  out  and  partake 
of  the  Divine  power  ?  But  one  thing  he  knew ;  but  one 
thing  could  he  do.  As  the  glory  of  white  light  around  him 
served  to  reveal  a  few  feet  only  of  the  way,  even  as  the 
density  beyond  seemed  impenetrable,  still  it  was  but 
seeming.  There  was  a  beyond  —  vast  —  mysterious  — 
which  he  must  search  out,  slowly,  painfully,  if  need  be, 
seeing  a  little  way  only,  but  seeing  that  little  clearly, 
revealed  by  the  white  light  of  spirit.  His  own  or  God's  ? 
Into  the  infinite  he  must  search  —  search  —  and  at  last 
surely  find. 


CHAPTER  II 

IN  WHICH   DAVID   THRYNG   EXPERIENCES   THE   HOSPITALITY 

OF  THE  MOUNTAIN   PEOPLE 

Suddenly  the  jolting  ceased.  The  deep  stillness  of  the 
night  seemed  only  intensified  by  the  low  panting  of  the 
animals  and  the  soft  dropping  of  the  wet  snow  from 
the  trees. 

"What  is  it  ?"  said  Thryng,  peering  from  under  the  can- 
vas cover.     "Anything  the  matter  ?" 

The  beasts  stood  with  low-swung  heads,  the  vapor 
rising  white  from  their  warm  bodies,  wet  with  the  melting 
snow.  His  question  fell  unheard,  and  the  girl  who  was 
climbing  down  over  the  front  wheel  began  to  unhitch  the 
team  in  silence.  He  rolled  the  sleeping  child  in  his  rug  and 
leaped  out. 

"Let  me  help  you.  What  is  the  trouble  ?  Oh,  are  you 
at  home  ?  '* 

"  I  can  do  this,  suh.  I  have  done  it  a  heap  of  times. 
Don't  go  nigh  Pete,  suh.  He's  mighty  quick,  and  he's 
mean."  The  beast  laid  back  his  ears  viciously  as  David 
approached. 

"You  ought  not  go  near  him  yourself,"  he  said,  taking 
a  firm  grip  of  the  bridle. 

^  "Oh,  he's  safe  enough  with  me  —  or  Frale.  Hold  him 
tight,  suh,  now  you  have  him,  till  I  get  round  there. 
Keep  his  head  towa'ds  you.     He  certainly  is  mean." 

The  colt  walked  off  to  a  low  stack  of  corn  fodder,  as 
she  turned  him  loose  with  a  light  slap  on  the  flank;  and 
the  mule,  impatient,  stamping  and  sidling  about,  stretched 
forth  his  nose  and  let  out  his  raucous  and  hideous  cry. 
While  he  was  thus  occupied,  the  girl  slipped  off  his  har- 
ness and,  taking  the  bridle,  led  the  beast  away  to  a  small 
railed  enclosure  on  the  far  side  of  the  stack  ;  and  David 
stood  alone  in  the  snow  and  looked  about  him. 

He  saw  a  low,  rambling  house,  which,  although  one  struc- 
ture, appeared  to  be  a  series  of  houses,  built  of  logs  plas- 
tered with  clay  in  the  chinks.     It  stood  in  a  tangle  of  wild 

10 


The  Mountain  People  1 1 

growth,  on  what  seemed  to  be  a  wide  ledge  jutting  out  from 
the  side  of  the  mountain,  which  loomed  dark  and  high 
behind  it.  An  incessant,  rushing  sound  pervaded  the 
place,  as  it  were  a  part  of  the  silence  or  a  breathing  of 
the  mountain  itself.  Was  it  wind  among  the  trees,  or 
the  rushing  of  water  ?  No  wind  stirred  now,  and  yet 
the  sound  never  ceased.  It  must  be  a  torrent  swollen 
by  the  melting  snow. 

He  saw  the  girl  moving  in  and  out  among  the  shadows, 
about  the  open  log  stable,  like  a  wraith.  The  braying  of 
the  mule  had  disturbed  the  occupants  of  the  house,  for 
a  candle  was  placed  in  a  window,  and  its  little  ray  streamed 
forth  and  was  swallowed  up  in  the  moonlight  and  black 
shades.  The  child,  awakened  by  the  horrible  noise  of 
the  beast,  rustled  in  the  corn  fodder  where  Thryng  had 
left  him.  Dazed  and  wondering,  he  peered  out  at  the 
young  man  for  some  moments,  too  shy  to  descend  until 
his  sister  should  return.  Now  she  came,  and  he  scrambled 
down  and  stood  close  to  her  side,  looking  up  weirdly,  his 
twisted  little  form  shivering  and  quaking. 

*'Run  in,  Hoyle,"  she  said,  looking  kindly  down  upon 
him.     "Tell  mothah  we're  all  right,  son." 

A  woman  came  to  the  door  holding  a  candle,  which 
she  shaded  w^th  a  gnarled  and  bony  hand. 

*'That  you,  Cass "? "  she  quavered.  "Who  aire  ye 
talkin'  to.^" 

"Yes,  Aunt  Sally,  we'll  be  there  directly.  Don't  let 
mothah  get  cold."  She  turned  again  to  David.  "I 
reckon  you'll  have  to  stop  with  us  to-night.  It's  a  right 
smart  way  to  the  cabin,  and  it'll  be  cold,  and  nothing 
to  eat.  We'll  bring  in  your  things  now,  and  in  the  morn- 
ing we  can  tote  them  up  to  your  place  with  the  mule, 
and  Hoyle  can  go  with  you  to  show  you  the  way." 

She  turned  toward  the  wagon  as  if  all  were  settled, 
and  Thryng  could  not  be  effusive  in  the  face  of  her  direct 
and  conclusive  manner ;  but  he  took  the  basket  from  her 
hand. 

"  Let  me  —  no,  no  —  I  will  bring  in  everything.  Thank 
you  very  much.  I  can  do  it  quite  easily,  taking  one 
at  a  time."  Then  she  left  him,  but  at  the  door  she  met 
him  and  helped  to  Kft  his  heavy  belongings  into  the 
house. 


12  The  Mountain  Girl 

The  room  he  entered  was  warm  and  brightly  lighted 
by  a  pile  of  blazing  logs  in  the  great  chimneyplace.  He 
walked  toward  it  and  stretched  his  hands  to  the  fire  — 
a  generous  fire  —  the  mountain  home's  luxury. 

Something  was  cooking  in  the  ashes  on  the  hearth 
which  sent  up  a  savory  odor  most  pleasant  and  appealing 
to  the  hungry  man.  The  meagre  boy  stood  near,  also 
warming  his  little  body,  on  which  his  coarse  garments 
hung  limply.  He  kept  his  great  eyes  fixed  on  David's 
face  in  a  manner  disconcerting,  even  in  a  child,  had  Thryng 
given  his  attention  to  it,  but  at  the  moment  he  was  in- 
terested in  other  things.  Dropped  thus  suddenly  into 
this  utterly  alien  environment,  he  was  observing  the 
girl  and  the  old  woman  as  intently,  though  less  openly,  as 
the  boy  was  watching  him. 

Presently  he  felt  himself  uncannily  the  object  of  a 
scrutiny  far  different  from  the  child's  wide-eyed  gaze, 
and  glancing  over  his  shoulder  toward  the  corner  from 
which  the  sensation  seemed  to  emanate,  he  saw  in  the 
depths  of  an  old  four-posted  bed,  set  in  their  hollow  sockets 
and  roofed  over  by  projecting  light  eyebrows,  a  pair  of 
keen,  glittering  eyes. 

"  Yas,  you  see  me  now,  do  ye  ?  "  said  a  high,  thin  voice 
in  toothless  speech.     "Who  be  ye  .^^  " 

His  physician's  feeling  instantly  alert,  he  stepped  to  the 
bedside  and  bent  over  the  wasted  form,  which  seemed 
hardly  to  raise  the  clothing  from  its  level  smoothness,  as 
if  she  had  lain  motionless  since  some  careful  hand  had 
arranged  it. 

"No,  ye  don't  know  me,  I  reckon.  'Tain't  likely.  Wlio 
be  ye  ?  "  she  iterated,  still  looking  unflinchingly  in  his  eyes. 

"Hit's  a  gentleman  who  knows  Doctah  Hoyle,  mothah. 
He  sent  him.    Don't  fret  you'se'f,"  said  the  girl  soothingly. 

"I'm  not  one  of  the  frettin'  kind,"  retorted  the  mother, 
never  taking  her  eyes  from  his  face,  and  again  speaking 
in  a  weak  monotone.     "Who  be  ye  ?'* 

"My  name  is  David  Thryng,  and  I  am  a  doctor,"  he  said 
quietly. 

"Where  be  ye  from  .?" 

"I  came  from  Canada,  the  country  where  Doctor 
Hoyle   lives." 

"I  reckon  so.     He  used  to  tell  'at  his  home  was  thar." 


The  Mountain  People  13 

A  pallid  hand  was  reached  slowly  out  to  him.  "I'm 
right  glad  to  see  ye.  Take  a  cheer  and  set.  Bring  a 
cheer,  Sally." 

But  the  girl  had  already  placed  him  a  chair,  which  he 
drew  close  to  the  bedside.  He  took  the  feeble  old  hand 
and  slipped  his  fingers  along  to  rest  lightly  on  the  wrist. 

"You  -needn't  stan'  watchin'  me,  Cass.  You  'n'  Sally 
set  suthin'  fer  th'  doctah  to  eat.  I  reckon  ye're  all  about 
gone  fer  hunger." 

•  *'Yes,  mothah,  right  soon.  Fry  a  little  pork  to  go  with 
the  pone,  Aunt  Sally.     Is  any  coffee  left  in  the  pot  ?  " 

"I  done  put  in  a  lee  tie  mo'  when  I  heered  the  mule 
hollah.  I  knowed  ye'd  want  it.  Might  throw  in  a  mite 
mo'  now  th'  gentleman's  come." 

The  two  women  resumed  their  preparations  for  supper, 
the  boy  continued  to  stand  and  gaze,  and  the  high  voice 
of  the  frail  occupant  of  the  bed  began  again  to  talk  and 
question. 

"When  did  you  come  down  f'om  that  thar  country  whar 
Doctah  Hoyle  lives  at  ? "  she  said,  in  her  monotonous 
wail. 

"Four  days  ago.  I  travelled  slowly,  for  I  have  been 
ill  myself.'' 

"Hit's  right  quare  now;  'pears  like  ef  I  was  a  doctah  I 
wouldn't  'low  myself  fer  to  get  sick.  An'  you  seed  Doctah 
Hoyle  fo'  days  back  ! " 

"No,  he  has  gone  to  England  on  a  visit.  I  saw  his  wife, 
though,  and  his  daughter.  She  is  a  young  lady  —  is  to 
be  married  soon." 

"They  do  grow  up  —  the  leetle  ones.  Hit  don't  seem 
mo'n  yestahday  'at  Cass  was  like  leetle  Hoyle  yandah, 
an'  hit  don't  seem  that  since  Doctah  Hoyle  was  here 
an'  leetle  Hoyle  came.  We  named  him  fer  th'  doctah. 
Waal,  I  reckon  ef  th'  doctah  was  here  now  'at  he  could 
he'p  me  some.  Maybe  ef  he'd  'a'  stayed  here  I  nevah 
would  'a'  got  down  whar  I  be  now.  He  was  a  right  good 
doctah,  bettah'n  a  yarb  doctah  —  most  —  I  reckon  so." 

David  smiled.  "I  think  so  myself,"  he  said.  "Are 
there  many  herb  doctors  here  about  ?  " 

"Not  rightly  doctahs,  so  to  speak,  but  they  is  some  'at 
knows  a  heap  about  yarbs." 

Good.     Perhaps  they  can  teach  me  something." 


(( 


14  The  Mountain  Girl 

The  old  face  was  feebly  lifted  a  bit  from  the  pillow,  and 
the  dark  eyes  grew  suddenly  sharp  in  their  scrutiny. 

"Who  be  ye,  anyhow?  What  aire  ye  here  fer?  Sech 
as  you  knows  a  heap  a'ready  'thout  makin'  out  to  larn 
o'  we-uns." 

David  saw  his  mistake  and  hastened  to  allay  the  sus- 
picion which  gleamed  out  at  him  almost  malignantly. 

"I  am  just  what  I  said,  a  doctor  like  Adam  Hoyle, 
only  that  I  don't  know  as  much  as  he  —  not  yet.  The 
wisest  man  in  the  world  can  learn  more  if  he  watches  out 
to  do  so.  Your  herb  doctors  might  be  able  to  teach  me  a 
good  many  things." 

"I  'spect  ye're  right  thar,  on'y  a  heap  o*  folks  thinks 
they  knows  it  all  fust." 

There  w^as  a  pause,  and  Thryng  leaned  back  in  his  stiff, 
splint-bottomed  chair  and  glanced  around  him.  He  saw 
that  the  girl,  although  moving  about  setting  to  rights 
and  brushing  here  and  there  with  an  unique,  home-made 
broom,  was  at  the  same  time  intently  listening. 

Presently  the  old  w^oman  spoke  again,  her  threadlike 
voice  penetrating  far. 

"What  do  you  'low  to  do  here  in  ouah  mountains? 
They  hain't  no  settlement  nighabouts  here,  an*  them  what's 
sick  hain't  no  money  to  pay  doctahs  with.  I  reckon  they'll 
hev  to  stay  sick  fer  all  o'  you-uns." 

David  looked  into  her  eyes  a  moment  quietly ;  then  he 
smiled.  The  way  to  her  heart  he  saw  was  through  the 
magic  of  one  name. 

"What  did  Doctor  Hoyle  do  when  he  was  down  here  ?  " 

"Him  ?     They  hain't  no  one  livin'  like  he  was." 

Then  David  laughed  outright,  a  gay,  contagious  laugh, 
and  after  an  instant  she  laughed  also. 

"I  agree  with  you,"  he  said.  "But  you  see,  I  am  a 
countryman  of  his,  and  he  sent  me  here  —  he  knows  me 
well —  and  I  mean  to  do  as  he  did,  if  —  I  can." 

He  drew  in  a  deep  breath  of  utter  weariness,  and  leaned 
forward,  his  elbows  on  his  knees,  his  head  in  his  hands,  and 
gazed  into  the  blazing  fire.  The  memories  which  had 
taken  possession  of  his  soul  during  the  long  ride  seemed 
to  envelop  him  so  that  in  a  moment  the  present  was 
swept  away  into  oblivion  and  his  spirit  was,  as  it  were, 
suddenly  withdrawn  from  the  body  and  projected  into 


The  Mountain  People  15 

the  past.  He  had  been  unable  to  touch  any  of  the  greasy 
cold  stuff  which  had  been  offered  him  during  the  latter 
part  of  his  journey,  and  the  heat  brought  a  drowsiness 
on  him  and  a  faintness  from  lack  of  food. 

"Cass  —  Cassandry  !  Look  to  him,"  called  the  mother 
shrilly,  but  the  girl  had  already  noticed  his  strange  ab- 
straction, and  the  small  Adam  Hoyle  had  drawn  back, 
in  awe,  to  his  mother. 

"  Get  some  whiskey,  Sally,"  said  the  girl,  and  David 
roused  himself  to  see  her  bending  over  him. 

"I  must  have  gone  off  in  a  doze,"  he  said  weakly. 
"The  long  ride  and  then  this  warmth  —  "  Seeing  the 
anxious  faces  around  him,  he  laughed  again.  "It's  noth- 
ing, I  assure  you,  only  the  comfort  and  the  smell  of  some- 
thing good  to  eat;"  he  sniffed  a  little.  "What  is  it?" 
he  asked. 

Old  Sally  was  tossing  and  shaking  the  frying  salt  pork 
in  the  skillet  at  the  fireplace,  and  the  odor  aggravated 
his  already  too  keen  appetite. 

"Ye  was  more'n  sleepy,  I  reckon,"  shrilled  the  woman 
from  the  bed.  "  Hain't  that  pone  done,  Sally  .?  No, 'tain't 
liquor  he  needs ;  hit's  suthin'  to  eat." 

Then  the  girl  hastened  her  slow,  gliding  movements, 
drew  splint  chairs  to  a  table  of  rough  pine  that  stood 
against  the  side  of  the  room,  and,  stooping  between  him 
and  the  fire,  pulled  something  from  among  the  hot  ashes. 
The  fire  made  the  only  light  in  the  room,  and  David 
never  forgot  the  supple  grace  of  her  as  she  bent  thus 
silhouetted  —  the  perfect  line  of  chin  and  throat  black 
against  the  blaze,  contrasted  with  the  weird,  witchlike  old 
woman  with  roughly  knotted  hair,  who  still  squatted  in 
the  heat,  and  shook  the  skillet  of  frying  pork. 

"Thar,  now  hit's  done,  I  reckon,"  said  old  Sally,  slowly 
rising  and  straightening  her  bent  back;  and  the  woman 
from  the  bed  called  her  orders. 

"Not  that  cup,"  she  cried,  as  Sally  began  pouring  black 
coffee  into  a  cracked  white  cup.  "  Git  th'  chany  one.  I  hid 
hit  yandah  in  th'  cornder  'hind  that  tin  can,  to  keep  'em 
f'om  usin'  hit  every  day.  I  had  a  hull  set  o'  that  when  I 
married  Farwell.  Give  hit  here."  She  took  the  precious 
relic  in  her  work-worn  hands  and  peered  into  it,  then  wiped 
it  out  with  the  corner  of  the  sheet  which  covered  her. 


16  The  Mountain  Girl 

This  ThrjTig  did  not  see.  He  was  watching  the  girl,  as 
she  broke  open  the  hot,  fragrant  corn-bread  and  placed  it 
beside  his  plate. 

'*  Come,"  she  said.  "You  sure  must  be  right  hungry.  Sit 
here  and  eat."  David  felt  like  one  drunken  with  weari- 
ness when  he  rose,  and  caught  at  the  edge  of  the  table  to 
steady  himself. 

"Aren't  you  hungry,  too  ?"  he  asked,  "and  Hoyle,  here  } 
Sit  beside  me  ;    we're  going  to  have  a  feast,  little  chap." 

The  girl  placed  an  earthen  crock  on  the  table  and  took 
from  it  honey  in  the  broken  comb,  rich  and  dark. 

"  Have  a  little  of  this  with  your  pone.  It's  right  good," 
she  said. 

"Frale,  he  found  a  bee  tree,"  piped  the  child  suddenly, 
gaining  confidence  as  he  saw  the  stranger  engaged  in  the 
very  normal  act  of  eating  with  the  relish  of  an  ordinary 
man.  He  edged  forward  and  sat  himself  gingerly  on  the 
outer  corner  of  the  next  chair,  and  accepted  a  huge  piece 
of  the  pone  from  David's  hand.  His  sister  gave  him  honey, 
and  Sally  dropped  pieces  of  the  sizzling  hot  pork  on  their 
plates,  from  the  skillet. 

David  sipped  his  coffee  from  the  flowered  "chany  cup" 
contentedly.  Served  without  milk  or  sugar,  it  was  strong, 
hot,  and  reviving.  The  girl  shyly  offered  more  of  the  corn- 
bread  as  she  saw  it  rapidly  disappearing,  pleased  to  see 
him  eat  so  eagerly,  yet  abashed  at  having  nothing  else  to 
offer. 

"I'm  sorry  we  can  give  you  only  such  as  this.  We 
don't  live  like  you  do  in  the  no'th.  Have  a  little  more  of 
the  honey." 

"Ah,  but  this  is  fine.  Good,  hey,  little  chap?  You 
are  doing  a  very  beneficent  thing,  do  you  know,  saving  a 
man's  life  V  He  glanced  up  at  her  flushed  face,  and  she 
smiled  deprecatingly.     He  fancied  her  smiles  were  rare. 

"But  it  is  quite  true.  Where  would  I  be  now  but  for 
you  and  Hoyle  here  ^  Lying  under  the  lee  side  of  the 
station  coughing  my  life  away,  —  and  all  my  own  fault, 
too.     I  should  have  accepted  the  bishop's  invitation." 

"You  helped  me  when  the  colt  was  bad."  Her  soft 
voice,  low  and  monotonous,  fell  musically  on  his  ear  when 
she  spoke. 

"Naturally  —  but  how  about  that,  anyway?     It's  a 


The  Mountain  People  17 

wonder  you  weren't  killed.  How  came  a  youngster  like 
you  there  alone  with  those  beasts  ?  "  Thryng  had  an  abrupt 
manner  of  springing  a  question  which  startled  the  child, 
and  he  edged  away,  furtively  watching  his  sister. 

"Did  you  hitch  that  kicking  brute  alone  and  drive  all 
that  distance  V 

"Aunt  Sally,  she  he'ped  me  to  tie  up;  she  give  him  co'n 
whilst  I  th'owed  on  the  strops,  an'  when  he's  oncet  tied  up, 
he  goes  all  right."  The  atom  grinned.  "Hit's  his  way. 
He's  mean,  but  he  nevah  works  both  ends  to  oncet." 

"Good  thing  to  know;  but  you're  a  hero,  do  you  under- 
stand that.^"  The  child  continued  to  edge  away,  and 
David  reached  out  and  drew  him  to  his  side.  Holding 
him  by  his  two  sharp  little  elbows,  he  gave  him  a  playful 
shake.     "I  say,  do  you  know  what  a  hero  is.'^" 

The  startled  boy  stopped  grinning  and  looked  wildly  to 
his  sister,  but  receiving  only  a  smile  of  reassurance  from 
her,  he  lifted  his  great  eyes  to  Thryng's  face,  then  slowly 
the  little  form  relaxed,  and  he  was  drawn  within  the  doc- 
tor's encircling  arm. 

"I  don't  reckon,"  was  all  his  reply,  which  ambiguous 
remark  caused  David,  in  his  turn,  to  look  to  the  sister  for 
elucidation.  She  held  a  long,  lighted  candle  in  her  hand, 
and  paused  to  look  back  as  she  was  leaving  the  room. 

"Yes,  you  do,  honey  son.  You  remembah  the  boy  with 
the  quare  long  name  sistah  told  you  about,  who  stood  there 
when  the  ship  was  all  afiah  and  wouldn't  leave  because 
his  fathah  had  told  him  to  bide  ?  He  was  a  hero." 
But  Hoyle  was  too  shy  to  respond,  and  David  could  feel 
his  little  heart  thumping  against  his  arm  as  he  held  him. 

"Tell  the  gentleman,  Hoyle.  He  don't  bite,  I  reckon," 
called  the  mother  from  her  corner. 

"His  name  begun  like  yourn,  Cass,  but  I  cyan't  re- 
membah the  hull  of  it." 

"Casablanca,  was  it  ?"  said  Thryng,  smiling. 

"I  reckon.     Did  you-uns  know  him  ?  " 

"\Mien  I  was  a  small  chap  like  you,  I  used  to  read  about 
him."  Then  the  atom  yielded  entirely,  and  leaned  com- 
fortably against  David,  and  his  sister  left  them,  carrying 
the  candle  with  her. 

Old  Sally  threw  another  log  on  the  fire,  and  the  flames 
leaped  up  the  cavernous  chimney,  lighting  the  room  with 


18  The  Mountain  Girl 

dramatic  splendor.  Thr3mg  took  note  of  its  unique  fur- 
nishing. In  the  corner  opposite  the  one  where  the  mother 
lay  was  another  immense  four-poster  bed,  and  before  it 
hung  a  coarse  homespun  curtain,  half  concealing  it.  At 
its  foot  was  a  huge  box  of  dark  wood,  well-made  and  strong, 
with  a  padlock.  This  and  the  beds  seemed  to  belong  to 
another  time  and  place,  in  contrast  to  the  other  articles, 
which  were  evidently  mountain  made,  rude  in  construction 
and  hewn  out  by  hand,  the  chairs  unstained  and  unpol- 
ished, and  seated  with  splints. 

The  walls  were  the  roughly  dressed  logs  of  which  the 
house  was  built,  the  chinks  plastered  with  deep  red-brown 
clay.  Depending  from  nails  driven  in  the  logs  were  fes- 
toons of  dried  apple  and  strips  of  dried  pumpkin,  and 
hanging  by  their  braided  husks  were  bunches  of  Indian 
corn,  not  yellow  like  that  of  the  north,  but  white  or  purple. 

There  were  bags  also,  containing  Thryng  knew  not 
what,  although  he  was  to  learn  later,  when  his  own  larder 
came  to  be  eked  out  by  sundry  gifts  of  dried  fruit  and  sweet 
corn,  together  with  the  staple  of  beans  and  peas  from  the 
widow's  store. 

Beside  the  window  of  small  panes  was  a  shelf,  on  which 
were  a  few  worn  books,  and  beneath  hung  an  almanac; 
at  the  foot  of  the  mother's  bed  stood  a  small  spinning- 
wheel,  with  the  wool  still  hanging  to  the  spindle.  David 
wondered  how  long  since  it  had  been  used.  The  scru- 
pulous cleanliness  of  the  place  satisfied  his  fastidious 
nature,  and  gave  him  a  sense  of  comfort  in  the  homely 
interior.  He  liked  the  look  of  the  bed  in  the  corner,  made 
up  high  and  round,  and  covered  with  marvellous  patchwork. 

As  he  sat  thus,  noting  all  his  surroundings,  Hoyle  still 
nestled  at  his  side,  leaning  his  elbows  on  the  doctor's  knees, 
his  chin  in  his  hands,  and  his  soft  eyes  fixed  steadily 
on  the  doctor's  face.  Thus  they  advanced  rapidly  toward 
an  amicable  acquaintance,  each  questioning  and  being 
questioned. 

"What  is  a  *bee  tree'  ?"  said  David.  "You  said  some- 
body found  one." 

"Hit's  a  big  holler  tree,  an'  hit's  plumb  full  o'  bees  an* 
honey.     Frale,  he  found  this'n." 

"Tell  me  about  it.     Where  was  it?" 

"Hit  war  up  yandah,  highah  up  th'  mountain.     They  is 


The  Mountain  People  19 

* 

a  hole  thar  what  wiF  cats  live  in,  Wil'  Cat  Hole.  Frale,  he 
war  a  hunt'n'  fer  a  cat.  Some  men  thar  at  th'  hotel,  they 
war  plumb  mad  to  hunt  a  wil'  cat  with  th'  dogs,  an'  Frale, 
he  'lowed  to  git  th'  cat  fer  'em." 

"And  when  was  that  ?" 

"Las'  summah,  v»^hen  th'  hotel  war  open.  They  war 
a  heap  o'  men  at  th'  hotel." 

"And  now  about  the  bee  tree.^" 

"Frale,  he  nevah  let  on  like  he  know'd  thar  war  a  bee 
tree,  an'  then  this  fall  he  took  me  with  him,  an'  we  made  a 
big  fire,  an'  then  w^e  cut  down  th'  tree,  an'  we  stayed  thar 
th'  hull  day,  too,  an'  eat  thar  an'  had  ros'n  ears  by  th'  fire, 
too." 

"I  say,  you  know.  There  seem  to  be  a  lot  of  things  you 
will  have  to  enlighten  me  about.  After  you  get  through 
with  the  bee  tree  you  must  tell  me  what  *  ros'n  ears'  are. 
And  then  what  did  you  do  .^  " 

"Thar  war  a  heap  o'  honey.  That  tree,  hit  war  nigh- 
about  plumb  full  o'  honey,  and  th'  bees  war  that  mad  you 
couldn't  let  'em  come  nigh  ye  'thout  they'd  sting  you. 
They  stung  me,  an'  I  nevah  hollered.  Frale,  he  'lowed  ef 
you  hollered,  you  wa'n't  good  fer  nothin',  goin'  bee  hunt'n'.'* 

"Is  Frale  j^our  brother.^" 

"Yas.  He  c'n  do  a  heap  o'  things,  Frale  can.  They 
war  a  heap  o'  honey  in  that  thar  tree,  'bout  a  bar'l  full,  er 
more'n  that.  We  hev  a  hull  tub  o'  honey  out  thar  in 
th'  loom  shed  yet,  an'  maw  done  sont  all  th'  rest  to  th' 
neighbors,  'cause  maw  said  they  wa'n't  no  use  in  humans 
bein'  fool  hogs  like  th'  bees  war,  a-keepin'  more'n  they  could 
eat  jes'  fer  therselves." 

"Yas,"  called  the  mother  from  her  corner,  where  she 
had  been  admiringly  listening;  "they  is  a  heap  like  that- 
a-way,  but  hit  ain't  our  way  here  in  th'  mountains.  Let 
th'  doctah  tell  you  suthin'  now,  Hoyle,  —  ye  mount  larn  a 
heap  if  ye'd  hark  to  him  right  smart,  'thout  talkin'  th'  hull 
time  youse'f." 

"I  has  to  tell  him  'bouts  th'  ros'n  ears  —  he  said  so. 
Thar  they  be."  He  pointed  to  a  bunch  of  Indian  corn. 
"You  wrop  'em  up  in  ther  shucks,  whilst  ther  green  an' 
sof,  and  kiver  'em  up  in  th'  ashes  whar  hit's  right  hot, 
and  then  when  ther  rosted,  eat  'em  so.  Now,  what  do 
you  know  ?  " 


20  The  Mountain  Girl 

"Why,  he  knows  a  heap,  son.     Don't  ax  that-a-way." 

"In  my  country,  away  across  the  ocean — "  began 
David. 

"Tell  'bout  th'  ocean,  how  hit  look." 

"In  my  country  we  don't  have  Indian  corn  nor  bee  trees, 
nor  wild  cat  holes,  but  we  have  the  ocean  all  around  us,  and 
we  see  the  ships  and  — " 

"Like  that  thar  one  whar  th'  boy  stood  whilst  hit  war 
on  fire  ?  " 

"Something  like,  yes."  Then  he  told  about  the  sea 
and  the  ships  and  the  great  fishes,  and  was  interrupted 
with  the  query  :  — 

"Reckon  you  done  seed  that  thar  fish  what  swallered 
the  man  in  th'  Bible  an'  then  th'ow'd  him  up  agin.'^" 

"^Vhy  no,  son,  you  know  that  thar  fish  war  dade  long 
'fore  we-uns  war  born.  You  mustn't  ax  fool  questions, 
honey." 

Old  Sally  sat  crouched  by  the  hearth  intently  listening 
and  asking  as  naive  questions  as  the  child,  whose  pallid 
face  grew  pink  and  animated,  and  whose  eyes  grew  larger 
as  he  strove  to  see  with  inward  vision  the  things  Thryng 
described.  It  was  a  happy  evening  for  little  Hoyle. 
Leaning  confidingly  against  David,  he  sighed  with  reple- 
tion of  joy.  He  was  not  eager  for  his  sister  to  return  — 
not  he.  He  could  lean  forever  against  this  wonderful 
man  and  listen  to  his  tales.  But  the  doctor's  weariness 
was  growing  heavier,  and  he  bethought  himself  that  the 
girl  had  not  eaten  with  them,  and  feared  she  was  taking 
trouble  to  prepare  quarters  for  him,  when  if  she  only  knew 
how  gladly  he  would  bunk  down  anywhere,  —  only  to 
sleep  while  this  blessed  and  delicious  drowsiness  was  over- 
powering him. 

"Where  is  your  sister,  Hoyle  .^^  Don't  you  reckon  it's 
time  you  and  I  were  abed  ?  "  he  asked,  adopting  the  child's 
vernacular. 

"She's  makin'  yer  bed  ready  in  th'  loom  shed,  likely," 
said  the  mother,  ever  alert.  With  her  pale,  prematurely 
wrinkled  face  and  uncannily  bright  and  watchful  eyes,  she 
seemed  the  controlling,  all-pervading  spirit  of  the  place. 
"Run,  child,  an'  see  what's  keepin'  her  so  long." 

"Hit's  dark  out  thar,"  said  the  boy,  stirring  himself 
slowly. 


The  Mountain  People  21 

"Run,  honey,  you  hain't  af eared,  kin  drive  a  team  all 
by  you'se'f.  Dark  hain't  nothin' ;  I  ben  all  ovah  these 
heah  mountains  when  thar  wa'n't  one  star  o'  light.  Maybe 
you  kin  he'p  her." 

At  that  moment  she  entered,  holding  the  candle  high 
to  light  her  way  through  what  seemed  to  be  a  dark  passage, 
her  still,  sweet  face  a  bit  flushed  and  stray  taches  of 
white  cotton  down  clinging  to  her  blue  homespun  dress. 
"The  doctah's  mos'  dade  fer  sleep,  Cass." 

"I  am  right  sorry  to  keep  you  so  long,  but  we  are 
obleeged  — " 

She  lifted  troubled  eyes  to  his  face,  as  Thryng  inter- 
rupted her. 

"Ah,  no,  no!  I  really  beg  your  pardon  —  for  coming 
in  on  you  this  way  —  it  was  not  right,  you  know.  It  was 
a  —  a  —  predicament,  wasn't  it  ?  It  certainly  wasn't 
right  to  put  you  about  so ;  if  —  you  will  just  let  me  go 
anywhere,  only  to  sleep,  I  shall  be  greatly  obliged.  I'm 
making  you  a  lot  of  trouble,  and  I'm  so  sorry." 

His  profusion  of  manner,  of  which  he  was  entirely  un- 
aware, embarrassed  her ;  although  not  shy  like  her  brother, 
she  had  never  encountered  any  one  who  spoke  with  such 
rapid  abruptness,  and  his  swift,  penetrating  glance  and 
pleasant  ease  of  the  world  abashed  her.  For  an  instant 
she  stood  perfectly  still  before  him,  slowly  comprehend- 
ing his  thought,  then  hastened  with  her  inherited,  inborn 
ladyhood  to  relieve  him  from  any  sense  that  his  sudden 
descent  upon  their  privacy  was  an  intrusion. 

Her  mind  moved  along  direct  lines  from  thought  to 
expression  —  from  impulse  to  action.  She  knew  no  con- 
ventional tricks  of  words  or  phrases  for  covering  an  awk- 
ward situation,  and  her  only  way  of  avoiding  a  self-betrayal 
was  by  silence  and  a  masklike  impassivity.  During  this 
moment  of  stillness  while  she  waited  to  regain  her  poise, 
he,  quick  and  intuitive  as  a  woman,  took  in  the  situation, 
yet  he  failed  to  comprehend  the  character  before  him. 

To  one  accustomed  to  the  conventional,  perfect  sim- 
plicity seems  to  conceal  something  held  back.  It  is  hard 
to  believe  that  all  is  being  revealed,  hence  her  slower 
thought,  in  reality,  comprehended  him  the  more  truly. 
What  he  supposed  to  be  pride  and  shame  over  their  meagre 
accommodations  was,  in  reality,  genuine  concern  for  his 


22  The  Mountain  Girl 

comfort,  and  embarrassment  before  his  ease  and  ready 
phrases.  As  in  a  swift  breeze  her  thoughts  were  caught 
up  and  borne  away  upon  them,  but  after  a  moment  they 
would  sweep  back  to  her  —  a  flock  of  innocent,  startled 
doves. 

Still  holding  her  candle  aloft,  she  raised  her  eyes  to  his 
and  smiled.  *'We-uns  are  right  glad  you  came.  If  you 
can  be  comfortable  where  we  are  obliged  to  put  you  to 
sleep,  you  must  bide  awhile."  She  did  not  say  " obleeged " 
this  time.  He  had  not  pronounced  it  so,  and  he  must 
know. 

"That  is  so  good  of  you.  And  now  you  are  very  tired 
yourself  and  have  eaten  nothing.  You  must  have  your 
own  supper.  Hoyle  can  look  after  me."  He  took  the 
candle  from  her  and  gave  it  to  the  boy,  then  turned  his 
own  chair  back  to  the  table  and  looked  inquiringly  at  Sally 
squatted  before  the  fire.  "Not  another  thing  shall  you 
do  for  me  until  you  are  waited  on.     Take  my  place  here." 

•David's  manner  seemed  like  a  command  to  her,  and  she 
slid  into  the  chair  with  a  weary,  drooping  movement. 
Hoyle  stood  holding  the  candle,  his  wry  neck  twisting  his 
head  to  one  side,  a  smile  on  his  face,  eying  them  sharply. 
He  turned  a  questioning  look  to  his  sister,  as  he  stiffened 
himself  to  his  newly  acquired  importance  as  host. 

Thryng  walked  over  to  the  bedside.  "In  the  morning, 
when  we  are  all  rested,  I'll  see  what  can  be  done  for  you," 
he  said,  taking  the  proffered  old  hand  in  his.  "I  am  not 
Dr.  Hoyle,  but  he  has  taught  me  a  little.  I  studied  and 
practised  with  him,  you  know." 

"Hev  ye?  Then  ye  must  know  a  heap.  Hit's  right 
like  th'  Lord  sont  ye.  You  see  suthin'  'peared  like  to  give 
Yv^ay  whilst  I  war  a-cuttin'  light  'ud  th'  othah  day,  an'  I 
went  all  er  a  heap  'crost  a  log,  an'  I  reckon  hit  hurt  me 
some.  I  hain't  ben  able  to  move  a  foot  sence,  an'  I  lay 
out  thar  nigh  on  to  a  hull  day,  whilst  Hoyle  here  run  clar 
down  to  Sally's  place  to  git  her.  He  couldn't  lif  me 
hisse'f ,  he's  that  weak ;  he  tried  to  haul  me  in,  but  when 
I  hollered,  —  sufferin'  so  I  war  jes'  'bleeged  to  holler,  —  he 
kivered  me  up  whar  I  lay  and  lit  out  fer  Sally,  an'  she  an' 
her  man  they  got  me  up  here,  an'  here  I  ben  ever  since.  I 
reckon  I  never  will  leave  this  bed  ontwell  I'm  cyarried  out 
in  a  box." 


The  Mountain  People  £S 

"Oh,  no,  not  that !  You're  too  much  ahve  for  that. 
We'll  see  about  it  to-morrow.     Good  night." 

"Hoyle  may  show  you  the  way,"  said  the  girl,  rising. 
"  Your  bed  is  in  the  loom  shed.  I'm  right  sorry  it's  so  cold. 
I  put  blankets  there,  and  you  can  use  all  you  like  of  them. 
I  would  have  given  you  Frale's  place  up  garret  —  only  — 
he  might  come  in  any  time,  and  — " 

"Naw,  he  won't.  He's  too  skeered  'at — "  Hoyle's 
interruption  stopped  abruptly,  checked  by  a  glance  of  his 
sister's  eye. 

"I  hope  you'll  sleep  well — " 

"  Sleep  .^  I  shall  sleep  like  a  log.  I  feel  as  if  I  could 
sleep  for  a  week.  It's  awfully  good  of  you.  I  hope  we 
haven't  eaten  all  the  supper,  Hoyle  and  I.  Come,  little 
chap.  Good  night."  He  took  up  his  valise  and  followed 
the  boy,  leaving  her  standing  by  the  uncleared  table,  gaz- 
ing after  him." 

'*Now  you  eat,  Cassandry.  You  are  nigh  about  per- 
ished you  are  that  tired,"  said  her  mother. 

Then  old  Sally  brought  more  pork  and  hot  pone  from 
the  ashes,  and  they  sat  down  together,  eating  and  sipping 
their  black  coffee  in  silence.  Presently  Hoyle  returned 
and  began  removing  his  clumsy  shoes,  by  the  fire. 

"Did  he  ax  ye  a  heap  o'  questions,  Hoyle .f^"  queried 
the  old  woman  sharply. 

*'Naw.     Did'n'  ax  noth'n'." 

"Waal,  look  out  'at  you  don't  let  on  nothin'  ef  he  does. 
Talkin'  may  hurt,  an'  hit  may  not." 
•    "He  hain't  no  government  man,  maw." 

"Hit's  all  right,  I  reckon,  but  them  'at  larns  young  to 
hold  ther  tongues  saves  a  heap  o'  trouble  fer  therselves." 

After  they  had  eaten,  old  Sally  gathered  the  few  dishes 
together  and  placed  all  the  splint-bottomed  chairs  back 
against  the  sides  of  the  room,  and,  only  half  disrobing, 
crawled  into  the  far  side  of  the  bed  opposite  to  the  mother's, 
behind  the  homespun  curtain. 

"To-morrow  I  reckon  I  kin  go  home  to  my  old  man, 
now  you've  come,  Cass." 

^  "Yes,"  said  the  girl  in  a  low  voice,  "you  have  been  right 
kind  to  we-all.  Aunt  Sallv." 

Then  she  bent  over  her  mother,  ministering  to  her  few 
wants ;    lifting  her  forward,  she  shook  up  the  pillow,  and 


24  The  Mountain  Girl 

gently  laid  her  back  upon  it,  and  lightly  kissed  her  cheek. 
The  child  had  quickly  dropped  to  sleep,  curled  up  like  a 
ball  in  the  farther  side  of  his  mother's  bed,  undisturbed 
by  the  low  murmur  of  conversation.  Cassandra  drew 
her  chair  close  to  the  fire  and  sat  long  gazing  into  the 
burning  logs  that  were  fast  crumbling  to  a  heap  of  glowing 
embers.  She  uncoiled  her  heavy  bronze  hair  and  combed 
it  slowly  out,  until  it  fell  a  rippling  mass  to  the  floor,  as 
she  sat.  It  shone  in  the  firelight  as  if  it  had  drawn  its 
tint  from  the  fire  itself,  and  the  cold  night  had  so  filled  it 
with  electricity  that  it  flew  out  and  followed  the  comb,  as  if 
each  hair  were  alive,  and  made  a  moving  aureola  of  warm 
red  amber  about  her  drooping  figure  in  the  midst  of  the 
sombre  shadows  of  the  room.  Her  face  grew  sad  and  her 
hands  moved  listlessly,  and  at  last  she  slipped  from  her 
chair  to  her  knees  and  wept  softly  and  prayed,  her  lips 
forming  the  words  soundlessly.  Once  her  mother  awoke, 
lifted  her  head  slightly  from  her  pillow  and  gazed  an  in- 
stant at  her,  then  slowly  subsided,  and  again  slept. 


CHAPTER  III 

IN  WHICH  AUNT  SALLY  TAKES  HER  DEPARTURE  AND   MEETS 

FRALE 

The  loom  shed  was  one  of  the  log  cabins  connected  with 
the  main  building  by  a  roofed  passage,  which  Thryng  had 
noticed  the  evening  before  as  being  an  odd  fashion  of  house 
architecture,  giving  the  appearance  of  a  small  flock  of 
cabins  all  nestling  under  the  wings  of  the  old  building  in 
the  centre. 

The  shed  was  dark,  having  but  one  small  window  with 
glass  panes  near  the  loom,  the  other  and  larger  opening 
being  tightly  closed  by  a  wooden  shutter.  David  slept 
late,  and  awoke  at  last  to  find  himself  thousands  of  miles 
away  from  his  dreams  in  this  unique  room,  all  in  the  deep- 
est shadow,  except  for  the  one  warm  bar  of  sunlight  which 
fell  across  his  face.  He  drowsed  off  again,  and  his  mind 
began  piecing  together  fragments  and  scenes  from  the 
previous  day  and  evening,  and  immediately  he  was  sur- 
rounded by  mystery,  moonlit,  fairylike,  and  white,  a  little 
crooked  being  at  his  side  looking  up  at  him  like  some 
gnome  creature  of  the  hills,  revealed  as  a  part  of  the  en- 
chantment. Then  slowly  resolving  and  melting  away  after 
the  manner  of  dreams,  the  wide  spaces  of  the  mystery 
drew  closer  and  warmer,  and  a  great  centre  of  blazing  logs 
threw  grotesque,  dancing  lights  among  them,  and  an  old,';^ 
face  peered  out  with  bright,  keen  eyes,  now  seen,  now  lost 
in  the  fitful  shadows,  now  pale  and  appealing  or  cautiously 
withdrawn,  but  always  watching  —  watching  while  the 
little  crooked  being  came  and  watched  also.  Then  be- 
tween him  and  the  blazing  light  came  a  dark  figure  sil- 
houetted blackly  against  it,  moving,  stooping,  rising, 
going  and  coming  —  a  sweet  girl's  head  with  heavily 
coiled  hair  through  which  the  firelight  played  with  flashes 
of  its  own  color,  and  a  delicate  profile  cut  in  pure,  clean  lines 
melting  into  throat  and  gently  rounded  breast;  like  a 
spirit,  now  here,  now  gone,  again  near  and  bending  over 
him,  —  a  ministering   spirit    bringing  him    food,  —  until 

25 


26  The  Mountain  Girl 

gradually  this  half  wake,  dreaming  reminiscence  concen- 
trated upon  her,  and  again  he  saw  her  standing  holding  the 
candle  high  and  looking  up  at  him,  —  a  wondering,  ques- 
tioning spirit,  —  then  drooping  wearily  into  the  chair  by  the 
uncleared  table,  and  again  waiting  with  almost  a  smile  on 
her  parted  lips  as  he  said  "good  night."  Good  night? 
Ah,  yes.     It  was  morning. 

Again  he  heard  the  continuous  rushing  noise  to  which 
he  had  listened  in  the  white  mystery,  that  had  soothed 
him  to  slumber  the  night  before,  rising  and  falling  — 
never  ceasing.  He  roused  himself  with  sudden  energy  and 
bounded  from  his  couch.  He  would  go  out  and  inves- 
tigate. His  sleep  had  been  sound,  and  he  felt  a  rejuve- 
nation he  had  not  experienced  in  many  months.  When 
he  threw  open  the  shutter  of  the  large  unglazed  window 
space  and  looked  out  on  his  strange  surroundings,  he 
found  himself  in  a  new  world,  sparkling,  fresh,  clear, 
shining  with  sunlight  and  glistening  with  wetness,  as  though 
the  whole  earth  had  been  newly  washed  and  varnished. 
The  sunshine  streamed  in  and  warmed  him,  and  the  air, 
filled  with  winelike  fragrance,  stirred  his  blood  and  set 
his  pulses  leaping. 

He  had  been  too  exhausted  the  previous  evening  to  do 
more  than  fall  into  the  bed  which  had  been  provided  him 
and  sleep  his  long,  uninterrupted  sleep.  Now  he  saw 
why  they  had  called  this  part  of  the  home  the  loom  shed, 
for  between  the  two  windows  stood  a  cloth  loom  left  just 
as  it  had  been  used,  the  warp  like  a  tightly  stretched 
veil  of  white  threads,  and  the  web  of  cloth  begun. 

In  one  corner  were  a  few  bundles  of  cotton,  one  of 
which  had  been  torn  open  and  the  contents  placed  in  a 
thick  layer  over  the  long  bench  on  which  he  had  slept, 
and  covered  with  a  blue  and  white  homespun  counter- 
pane. The  head  had  been  built  high  with  it,  and  sheets 
spread  over  all.  He  noticed  the  blankets  which  had 
covered  him,  and  saw  that  they  were  evidently  of  home 
manufacture,  and  that  the  white  spread  which  covered 
them  was  also  of  coarse,  clean  homespun,  ornamented 
in  squares  with  rude,  primitive  needlework.  He  mar- 
velled at  the  industry  here  represented. 

As  for  his  toilet,  the  preparation  had  been  most  simple. 
A  shelf  placed  on  pegs  driven  between  the  logs  supported 


Aunt  Sally  meets  Frale  27 

a  piece  of  looking-glass ;  a  splint  chair  set  against  the  wall 
served  as  wash-stand  and  towel-rack  —  the  homespun 
cotton  towels  neatly  folded  and  hung  over  the  back ; 
a  wooden  pail  at  one  side  was  filled  with  clear  water,  over 
which  hung  a  dipper  of  gourd;  a  white  porcelain  basin 
was  placed  on  the  chair,  over  which  a  clean  towel  had 
been  spread,  and  to  complete  all,  a  square  cut  from  the 
end  of  a  bar  of  yellow  soap  lay  beside  the  basin. 

David  smiled  as  he  bent  himself  to  the  refreshing  task 
of  bathing  in  water  so  cold  as  to  be  really  icy.  Indeed, 
ice  had  formed  over  still  pools  without  during  the  night, 
although  now  fast  disappearing  under  the  glowing  morn- 
ing sun.  Above  his  head,  laid  upon  cross-beams,  were 
bundles  of  wool  uncarded,  and  carding-boards  hung  from 
nails  in  the  logs.  In  one  corner  was  a  rudely  constructed 
reel,  and  from  the  loom  dangled  the  idle  shuttle  filled 
with  fine  blue  yarn  of  wool.  Thryng  thought  of  the  worn 
old  hands  which  had  so  often  thrown  it,  and  thinking 
of  them  he  hastened  his  toilet  that  he  might  go  in  and 
do  what  he  could  to  help  the  patient.  It  was  small  enough 
return  for  the  kindness  shown  him.  He  feared  to  offer 
money  for  his  lodgment,  at  least  until  he  could  find  a 
way. 

At  last,  full  of  new  vigor  and  very  hungry,  he  issued 
from  his  sleeping-room,  sadly  in  need  of  a  shave,  but 
biding  his  time,  satisfied  if  only  breakfast  might  be  forth- 
coming. He  had  no  need  to  knock,  for  the  house  door 
stood  open,  flooding  the  place  with  sunlight  and  frosty 
air.  The  huge  pile  of  logs  was  blazing  on  the  hearth 
as  if  it  had  never  ceased  since  the  night  before,  and  the 
flames  leaped  hot  and  red  up  the  great  chimney. 

Old  Sally  no  longer  presided  at  the  cookery.  With 
a  large  cup  of  black  coffee  before  her,  she  now  sat  at  the 
table  eating  corn-bread  and  bacon.  A  drooping  black 
sunbonnet  on  her  head  covered  her  unkempt,  grizzly  hair, 
and  a  cob  pipe  and  bag  of  tobacco  lay  at  her  hand.  She 
was  ready  for  departure.  Cassandra  had  returned,  and 
her  gratuitous  neighborly  offices  were  at  an  end.  The 
girl  was  stooping  before  the  fire,  arranging  a  cake  of  corn- 
bread  to  cook  in  the  ashes.  A  crane  swung  over  the 
flames  on  which  a  fat  iron  kettle  was  hung,  and  the  large 
coffee-pot  stood  on  the  hearth.    The  odor  of  breakfast  was 


28  '  The  Mountain  Girl 

savory  and  appetizing.  As  David's  tall  form  cast  a  shadow 
across  the  sunlit  space  on  the  floor,  the  old  mother's  voice 
called  to  him  from  the  corner. 

"Come  right  in,  Doctah;  take  a  cheer  and  set.  Your 
breakfast's  ready,  I  reckon.     How  have  you  slept,  suh  V 

The  girl  at  the  fire  rose  and  greeted  him,  but  he  missed 
the  boy.     "Where's  the  httle  chap  .^  "  he  asked. 

"  Cassandry  sont  him  out  to  wash  up.  F'ust  thing 
she  do  when  she  gets  home  is  to  begin  on  Hoyle  and  wash 
him  up." 

"He  do  get  that  dirty,  poor  little  son,"  said  the  girl. 
"It's  like  I  have  to  torment  him  some.  Will  you  have 
breakfast  now,  suh  .^  Just  take  your  chair  to  the  table, 
and  I'll  fetch  it  directly." 

"Won't  I,  though!  What  air  you  have  up  here!  It 
makes  me  hungry  merely  to  breathe.  Is  it  this  way  all 
the  time  ^  " 

"Hit's  this-a-way  a  good  deal,"  said  Sally,  from  under 
her  sunbonnet.  "Oh,  the'  is  days  hit's  some  colder, 
like  to  make  water  freeze  right  hard,  but  most  days  hit's 
a  heap  warmer  than  this." 

"That's  so,"  said  the  invalid.  "I  hev  seen  it  so  warm 
a  heap  o'  winters  'at  the  trees  gits  fooled  into  thinkin'  hit's 
spring  an'  blossoms  all  out,  an'  then  come  along  a  late 
freez'n'  spell  an'  gits  ther  fruit  all  killed.  Hit's  quare 
how  they  does  do  that-a-way.  We-all  hates  it  when  the 
days  come  warm  in  Feb'uary." 

"Then  you  must  have  been  glad  to  have  snow  yester- 
day. I  was  disappointed.  I  was  running  away  from 
that  sort  of  thing,  you  know." 

Thryng's  breakfast  was  served  to  him  as  had  been 
his  supper  of  the  evening  before,  directly  from  the  fire. 
As  he  ate  he  looked  out  upon  the  usual  litter  of  corn  fodder 
scattered  about  near  the  house,  and  a  few  implements  of 
the  simplest  character  for  cultivating  the  small  pocket  of 
rich  soil  below,  but  beyond  this  and  surrounding  it  was 
a  scene  of  the  wildest  beauty.  Giant  forest  trees,  inter- 
twined and  almost  overgrown  by  a  tangle  of  wild  grape- 
vines, hid  the  fall  from  sight,  and  behind  them  the  moun- 
tain rose  abruptly.  A  continuous  stream  of  clearest 
water,  icy  cold,  fell  from  high  above  into  a  long  trough 
made  of  a  hollow  log.     There  at  the  running  water  stood 


Aunt  Sally  meets  Frale  29 

little  Hoyle,  his  coarse  cotton  towel  hung  on  an  azalia 
shrub,  giving  himself  a  thorough  scrubbing.  In  a  moment 
he  came  in  panting,  shivering,  and  shining,  and  still  wet 
about  the  hair  and  ears. 

"Why,  you  are  not  half  dry,  son,"  said  his  sister.  She 
took  the  towel  from  him  and  gave  his  head  a  vigorous 
rubbing.  "  Go  and  get  warm,  honey,  and  sister'U  give 
you  breakfast  by  the  fire."  She  turned  to  David  :  "  Likely 
you  take  milk  in  your  coffee.  I  never  thought  to  ask 
you."  She  left  the  room  and  returned  with  a  cup  of 
new  milk,  warm  and  sweet.  He  was  glad  to  get  it, 
finding  his  black  coffee  sweetened  only  with  molasses 
unpalatable. 

"Don't  you  take  milk  in  your  coffee.'^  How  came  you 
to  think  of  it  for  me  ?  " 

"I  knew  a  lady  at  the  hotel  last  summer.  She  said 
that  up  no*th  'most  everybody  does  take  milk  or  cream, 
one,  in  their  coffee." 

"  I  never  seed  sech.      Hit's  clar  waste  to  my  thinkin'." 

Cassandra  smiled.  "That's  because  you  never  could 
abide  milk.  Mothah  thinks  it's  only  fit  to  make  buttah 
and  raise  pigs  on." 

Old  Sally's  horse,  a  thin,  wiry  beast,  gray  and  speckled, 
stood  ready  saddled  near  the  door,  his  bridle  hanging 
from  his  neck,  the  bit  dangling  while  he  also  made  his 
repast.  When  he  had  finished  his  corn  and  she  had 
finished  her  elaborate  farewells  at  the  bedside,  and  little 
Hoyle  had  with  much  effort  succeeded  in  bridling  her 
steed,  she  stepped  quickly  out  and  gained  her  seat  on  the 
high,  narrow  saddle  with  the  ease  of  a  young  girl.  Meagre 
as  a  willow  withe  in  her  scant  black  cotton  gown,  perched 
on  her  bony  gray  beast,  and  only  the  bowl  of  her  cob 
pipe  projecting  beyond  the  rim  of  her  sunbonnet  as  indi- 
cation that  a  face  might  be  hidden  in  its  depths,  with  a 
meal  sack  containing  in  either  end  sundry  gifts  —  salt  pork, 
chicken,  corn-bread,  and  meal  —  slung  over  the  horse's  back 
behind  her,  and  with  contentment  in  her  heart.  Aunt 
Sally  rode  slowly  over  the  hills  to  rejoin  her  old  man. 

Soon  she  left  the  main  road  and  struck  out  into  a  steep, 
narrow  trail,  merely  a  mule  track  arched  with  hornbeam 
and  dogwood  and  mulberry  trees,  and  towered  over  by 


30  The  Mountain  Girl 

giant  chestnuts  and  oaks  and  great  white  pines  and  deep 
green  hemlocks.  Through  myriad  leafless  branches  the 
wind  soughed  pleasantly  overhead,  unfelt  by  her,  so  com- 
pletely was  she  protected  by  the  thickly  growing  laurel 
and  rhododendron  on  either  side  of  her  path.  The  snow 
of  the  day  before  was  gone,  leaving  only  the  glistening 
wetness  of  it  on  stones  and  fallen  leaves  and  twigs  under- 
foot, while  in  open  spaces  the  sun  beat  warmly  down 
upon  her. 

The  trail  led  by  many  steep  scrambles  and  sharp  de- 
scents more  directly  to  her  home  than  the  road,  which 
wound  and  turned  so  frequently  as  to  more  than  double 
the  distance.  At  intervals  it  cut  across  the  road  or  fol- 
lowed it  a  little  w^ay,  only  to  diverge  again.  Here  and 
there  other  trails  crossed  it  or  branched  from  it,  leading 
higher  up  the  mountain,  or  off  into  some  gorge  following 
the  course  of  a  stream,  so  that,  except  to  one  accustomed 
to  its  intricacies,  the  path  might  easily  be  lost. 

Old  Sally  paid  no  heed  to  her  course,  apparently  leav- 
ing the  choice  of  trails  to  her  horse.  She  sat  easily  on  the 
beast  and  smoked  her  pipe  until  it  was  quite  out,  when  she 
stowed  it  away  in  the  black  cloth  bag,  which  dangled  from 
her  elbow  by  its  strings.  Spying  a  small  sassafras  shrub 
leaning  toward  her  from  the  bank  above  her  head,  she  gave 
it  a  vigorous  pull  as  she  passed  and  drew  it,  root  and  all, 
from  its  hold  in  the  soil,  beat  it  against  the  mossy  bank, 
and  swished  it  upon  her  skirt  to  remove  the  earth  cling- 
ing to  it.  Then,  breaking  off  a  bit  of  the  root,  she  chewed 
it,  while  she  thrust  the  rest  in  her  bag  and  used  the  top 
for  a  switch  with  which  to  hasten  the  pace  of  her  nag. 

The  small  stones,  loosened  when  she  tore  the  shrub 
from  the  bank,  rattled  down  where  the  soil  had  been 
washed  away,  leaving  the  steep  shelving  rock  side  of  the 
mountain  bare,  and  she  heard  them  leap  the  smooth  space 
and  fall  softly  on  the  moss  among  the  ferns  and  lodged 
leaves  below.  There,  crouched  in  the  sun,  lay  a  man 
with  a  black  felt  hat  covering  his  face.  The  stones  falling 
about  him  caused  him  to  raise  himself  stealthily  and  peer 
upward.  Descrying  only  the  lone  woman  and  the  gray 
horse,  he  gave  a  low  peculiar  cry,  almost  like  that  of  an 
animal  in  distress.  She  drew  rein  sharply  and  listened. 
The  cry  was  repeated  a  little  louder. 


Aunt  Sally  meets  Frale  31 

"Come  on  up  hyar,  Frale.     Hit's  on'y  me.     Hu'  come 

you  thar  ?** 

He  climbed  rapidly  up  through  the  dense  undergrowth, 
and  stood  at  her  side,  breathing  quickly.  For  a  moment 
they  waited  thus,  regarding  each  other,  neither  speaking. 
The  boy  —  he  seemed  little  more  than  a  youth  —  looked 
up  at  her  with  a  singularly  innocent  and  appealing  ex- 
pression, but  gradually  as  he  saw  her  impassive  and  un- 
relenting face,  his  own  resumed  a  hard  and  sullen  look, 
which  made  him  appear  years  older.  His  forehead  was 
damp  and  cold,  and  a  lock  of  silken  black  hair,  slightly 
curling  over  it,  increased  its  whiteness.  Dark,  heavy  rings 
were  under  his  eyes,  which  gleamed  blue  as  the  sky  be- 
tween long  dark  lashes.  His  arms  dropped  listlessly  at 
his  side,  and  he  stood  before  her,  as  before  a  dread  judge, 
bareheaded  and  silent.  He  bore  her  look  only  for  a  minute, 
then  dropped  his  eyes,  and  his  hand  clinched  more  tightly 
the  rim  of  his  old  felt  hat.  When  he  ceased  looking  at 
her,  her  eyes  softened. 

"I  'low  ye  mus'  hev  suthin'  to  say  fer  yourse'f,"  she 
said. 

"I  reckon."  The  corners  of  his  mouth  drooped,  and 
he  did  not  look  up.  He  made  as  if  to  speak  further,  but 
only  swallowed  and  was  silent. 

*'Ye  reckon.''     Waal,  why 'n't  ye  say  .^^  " 

**They  hain't  nothin'  to  say.  He  war  mean  an'  —  an'  — 
he's  dade.     I  reckon  he's  dade." 

"Yas,  he's  dade  —  an'  they  done  had  the  buryin'." 
Her  voice  was  monotonous  and  plaintive.  A  pallor  swept 
over  his  face,  and  he  drew  the  back  of  his  hand  across 
his  mouth. 

**He  knowed  he  hadn't  ought  to  rile  me  like  he  done. 
I  be'n  tryin'  to  make  his  hoss  go  home,  but  I  cyan't. 
Hit  jes'  hangs  round  thar.  I  done  brung  him  down  an' 
lef  him  in  your  shed,  an'  I  'lowed  p'rhaps  Uncle  Jerry'd 
take  him  ovah  to  his  paw."  Again  he  swallowed  and 
turned  his  face  away.  "The  critter 'd  starve  up  yander. 
Anyhow,  I  ain't  hoss  stealin'.  Hit  war  mo'n  a  hoss  'twixt 
him  an'  me."  From  the  low,  quiet  tones  of  the  two  no 
one  would  have  dreamed  that  a  tragedy  lay  beneath  their 
words. 

"Look  a-hyar,  Frale.    Thar  wa'n't  nothin'  'twixt  him 


32  The  Mountain  Girl 

an'  you.  Ye  war  both  on  ye  full  o'  mean  corn  whiskey, 
an'  ye  war  quarrellin'  'bouts  Cass."  A  faint  red  stole  into 
the  boy's  cheeks,  and  the  blue  gleam  of  his  eyes  between 
the  dark  lashes  narrowed  to  a  mere  line,  as  he  looked  an 
instant  in  her  face  and  then  off  up  the  trail. 

*' Hain't  ye  seed  nobody  .^^  "  he  asked. 

"You  knows  I  hain't  seed  nobody  to  hurt  you-uns 
*thout  I'd  tell  ye.  Look  a-hyar,  son,  you  are  hungerin'. 
Come  home  with  me,  an'  I'll  get  ye  suthin'  to  eat.  Ef  you 
don't,  ye'll  go  back  an'  fill  up  on  whiskey  agin,  an'  thar'll 
be  the  end  of  ye."  He  walked  on  a  few  steps  at  her  side, 
then  stopped  suddenly. 

"I  'low  I  better  bide  whar  I  be.  You-uns  hain't  been 
yandah  to  the  fall,  have  ye  .'^  " 

*'I  have.  You  done  a  heap  mo'n  you  reckoned  on. 
When  Marthy  heered  o'  the  killin',  she  jes'  drapped  whar 
she  stood.  She  war  out  doin'  work  'at  you'd  ought  to  'a' 
been  doin'  fer  her,  an'  she  hain't  moved  sence.  She  like 
to  'a'  perished  lyin'  out  thar.  Pore  little  Hoyle,  he  run  all 
the  way  to  our  place  he  war  that  skeered,  an'  'lowed  she 
war  dade,  an'  me  an'  the  ol'  man  went  ovah,  an'  thar  we 
found  her  lyin'  in  the  yard,  an'  the  cow  war  lowin'  to  be 
milked,  an'  the  pig  squeelin'  like  hit  war  stuck,  fer  hunger. 
Hit  do  make  me  clar  plumb  mad  when  I  think  how  you  hev 
acted,  —  jes'  like  you'  paw.  Ef  he'd  nevah  'a'  started 
that  thar  still,  you'd  nevah  'a'  been  what  ye  be  now, 
a-drinkin'  yer  own  whiskey  at  that.     Come  on  home  with 


me." 


"I  reckon  I'm  bettah  hyar.  They  mount  be  thar 
huntin'  me." 

"I  know  you're  hungerin*.  I  got  suthin'  ye  can  eat, 
but  I  'lowed  if  you'd  come,  I'd  get  you  an'  the  ol'  man 
a  good  chick'n  fry."  She  took  from  her  stores,  slung  over 
the  nag,  a  piece  of  corn-bread  and  a  large  chunk  of  salt 
pork,  and  gave  them  into  his  hand.  "Thar  !  Eat.  Hit's 
heart 'nin'." 

He  was  suffering,  as  she  thought,  and  reached  eagerly 
for  the  food,  but  before  tasting  it  he  looked  up  again  into 
her  face,  and  the  infantile  appeal  had  returned  to  his  eyes. 

"Tell  me  more  'bouts  maw,"  he  said. 

"You  eat,  an'  I'll  talk,"  she  replied.  He  broke  a  large 
piece  from  the  corn-cake  and  crowded  the  rest  into  his 


Aunt  Sally  meets  Frale  33 

pocket.  Then  he  drew  forth  a  huge  clasp-knife  and  cut 
a  thick  sHce  from  the  raw  salt  pork,  and  pulhng  a  red  cotton 
handkerchief  from  his  belt,  he  wrapped  it  around  the  re- 
mamder  and  held  it  under  his  arm  as  he  ate. 

"She  hain't  able  to  move  'thout  hollerin',  she's  that 
bad  hurted.  Paw  an*  I,  we  got  her  to  bed,  an'  I  been 
thar  ever  since  with  all  to  do  ontwell  Cass  come.  Likely 
she  done  broke  her  hip." 

"Is  Cass  thar  now  ?  Hu'  come  she  thar  ?"  Again  the 
blood  sought  his  cheeks. 

"Paw  rode  down  to  the  settlement  and  telegrafted  fer 
her.  Pore  thing!  You  don't  reckon  what-all  you  have 
done.  I  wisht  you'd  'a'  took  aftah  your  maw.  She  war 
my  own  sister,  'nd  she  war  that  good  she  must  'a'  went 
straight  to  glory  when  she  died.  Your  paw,  he  like 
to  'a'  died  too  that  time,  an'  when  he  married  Marthy 
Merlin,  I  reckoned  he  war  cured  o'  his  ways ;  but  hit 
did'n'  last  long.  Marthy,  she  done  well  by  him,  an'  she 
done  well  by  3^ou,  too.  They  hain't  nothin'  agin  Marthy. 
She  be'n  a  good  stepmaw  to  ye,  she  hev,  an'  now  see  how 
you  done  her,  an'  Cass  givin'  up  her  school  an'  comin' 
home  thar  to  ten'  beastes  an'  do  your  work  like  she  war 
a  man.  Her  family  wa'n't  brought  up  that-a-way,  nor 
mine  wa'n't  neither.  Big  fool  Marthy  war  to  marry  with 
your  paw.  Hit's  that-a-way  with  all  the  Farwells;  they 
been  that  quarellin'  an'  bad,  makin'  mean  whiskey  an' 
drinkin'  hit  raw,  killin'  hyar  an'  thar,  an'  now  you  go 
doin'  the  same,  an'  my  own  nephew,  too."  Her  face  re- 
mained impassive,  and  her  voice  droned  on  monotonously, 
but  two  tears  stole  down  her  wrinkled  cheeks.  His  face 
settled  into  its  harder  lines  as  she  talked,  but  he  made  no 
reply,  and  she  continued  querulously  :  "Why'n't  you  pay 
heed  to  me  long  ago,  when  I  tol'  ye  not  to  open  that  thar 
still  again  ?  You  are  a  heap  too  young  to  go  that-a-way, 
—  my  own  kin,  like  to  be  hung  fer  man-killin'." 

"WTien  did  Cass  come?"  he  interrupted  sullenly. 
Las   evenm  . 

"I'll  drap  'round  thar  this  evenin'  er  late  night,  I  reckon. 
I  have  to  get  feed  fer  my  own  hoss  an'  tote  hit  up  er  take 
him  back  —  one.  All  I  fetched  up  last  week  he  done  et." 
He  turned  to  walk  away,  but  stood  with  averted  head  as 
she  began  speaking  again. 


34         '  The  Mountain  Girl 

"Don't  you  do  no  such  fool  thing.  You  keep  clar  o* 
thar.  Bring  the  hoss  to  me,  an*  I'll  ride  him  home.  What 
you  want  o'  the  beast  on  the  mountain,  anyhow  ?  Hit's 
only  like  to  give  away  whar  ye'r'  at.  All  you  want  is  to  git 
to  see  Cass,  but  hit  won't  do  you  no  good,  leastways  not 
now.  You  done  so  bad  she  won't  look  at  ye  no  more, 
I  reckon.  They  is  a  man  thar,  too,  now."  He  started 
back,  his  hands  clinched,  his  head  lifted,  in  his  whole  air 
an  animal-like  ferocity.  "Thar  now,  look  at  ye.  'Tain't 
you  he's  after." 

"  'Tain't  me  I'm  feared  he's  after.   How  come  he  thar  ^  " 

"He  come  with  her  las'  evenin'  — "  A  sound  of  horses' 
hoofs  on  the  road  far  below  arrested  her.  They  both 
waited,  listening  intently.  "Thar  they  be.  Git,"  she 
whispered.  "Cass  tol'  me  ef  I  met  up  with  ye,  to  say  'at 
she'd  leave  suthin'  fer  ye  to  eat  on  the  big  rock  'hind  the 
holly  tree  at  the  head  o'  the  fall."  She  leaned  down  to 
him  and  held  him  by  the  coat  an  instant,  "Son,  leave 
whiskey  alone.     Hit's  the  only  way  you  kin  do  to  get  her." 

"Yas,  Aunt  Sally,"  he  murmured.  His  eyes  thanked 
her  with  one  look  for  the  tone  or  the  hope  her  words  held 
out. 

Again  the  laugh,  nearer  this  time,  and  again  the  wild 
look  of  haunting  fear  in  his  face.  He  dropped  where  he 
stood  and  slipped  stealthily  as  a  cat  back  to  the  place 
where  he  had  lain,  and  crawling  on  his  belly  toward  a 
heap  of  dead  leaves  caught  by  the  brush  of  an  old  fallen 
pine,  he  crept  beneath  them  and  lay  still.  His  aunt  did 
not  stir.  Patting  her  horse's  neck,  she  sat  and  waited 
until  the  voices  drew  nearer,  came  close  beneath  her  as  the 
road  wound,  and  passed  on.  Then  she  once  more  moved 
along  toward  her  cabin. 


CHAPTER  IV 

DAVID    SPENDS    HIS    FIRST    DAY    AT    HIS    CABIN,    AND    FRALE 

]VIAKES   HIS   CONFESSION 

Doctor  Hoyle  had  built  his  cabin  on  one  of  the  pinna- 
cles of  the  earth,  and  David,  looking  down  on  blue  bil- 
lowing mountain  tops  with  only  the  spaces  of  the  air 
between  him  and  heaven  —  between  him  and  the  ocean  — 
between  him  and  his  fair  English  home  —  felt  that  he 
knew  why  the  old  doctor  had  chosen  it. 

Seated  on  a  splint-bottomed  chair  in  the  doorway, 
pondering,  he  thought  first  of  his  mother,  with  a  little 
secret  sorrow  that  he  could  not  have  taken  to  his  heart  the 
bride  she  had  selected  for  him,  and  settled  in  his  own  home 
to  the  comfortable  ease  the  wife's  wealth  would  have  se- 
cured for  him.  It  was  not  that  the  money  had  been  made 
in  commerce ;  he  was  neither  a  snob  nor  a  cad.  Although 
his  own  connections  entitled  him  to  honor,  what  more 
could  he  expect  than  to  marry  wealth  and  be  happy,  if 
—  if  happiness  could  come  to  either  of  them  in  that  way. 
No,  his  heart  did  not  lean  toward  her ;  it  was  better  that 
he  should  bend  to  his  profession  in  a  strange  land.  But 
not  this,  to  live  a  hermit's  life  in  a  cabin  on  a  wild  hilltop. 
How  long  must  it  be  —  how  long  ? 

Brooding  thus,  he  gazed  at  the  distance  of  ever  paling 
blue,  and  mechanically  counted  the  ranges  and  peaks 
below  him.  An  inaccessible  tangle  of  laurel  and  rhodo- 
dendron clothed  the  rough  and  precipitous  w^ali  of  the 
mountain  side,  which  fell  sheer  down  until  lost  in  purple 
shadow,  with  a  mantle  of  green,  deep  and  rich,  varied  by 
the  gray  of  the  lichen-covered  rocks,  the  browns  and  reds 
of  the  bare  branches  of  deciduous  trees,  and  the  paler 
tints  of  feathery  pines.  Here  and  there,  from  damp, 
spring^^  places,  dark  hemlocks  rose  out  of  the  mass,  tall 
and  majestic,  waving  their  plumy  tops,  giant  sentinels 
of  the  wilderness. 

Gradually  his  mood  of  brooding  retrospect  changed, 
and  he  knew  himself  to  be  glad  to  his  heart's  core.     He 

35 


36  The  Mountain  Girl 

could  understand  why,  out  of  the  turmoil  of  the  Middle 
Ages,  men  chose  to  go  to  sequestered  places  and  become 
hermits.  No  tragedies  could  be  in  this  primeval  spot, 
and  here  he  would  rest  and  build  again  for  the  future. 
He  was  pleased  to  sit  thus  musing,  for  the  climb  had  taken 
more  strength  than  he  could  well  spare.  His  cabin  was 
not  yet  habitable,  for  the  simple  things  Doctor  Hoyle  had 
accumulated  to  serve  his  needs  were  still  locked  in  well- 
built  cupboards,  as  he  had  left  them. 

Thryng  meant  soon  to  go  to  work,  to  take  out  the  bed 
covers  and  air  them,  and  to  find  the  canvas  and  nail  it 
over  the  framework  beside  the  cabin  which  was  to  serve 
as  a  sleeping  apartment.  All  should  be  done  in  time. 
That  was  a  good  framework,  strongly  built,  with  the  corner 
posts  set  deep  in  the  ground  to  keep  it  firm  on  this  wind- 
swept height,  and  with  a  door  in  the  side  of  the  cabin 
opening  into  the  canvas  room.  Ah,  yes,  all  that  the  old 
doctor  did  was  well  and  thoroughly  done. 

His  appetite  sharpened  by  the  climb  and  the  bracing  air, 
David  investigated  the  contents  of  one  of  those  melon- 
shaped  baskets  which  Cassandra  had  given  him  when 
he  started  for  his  new  home  that  morning,  with  little  Hoyle 
as  his  guide. 

Ah,  what  hospitable  kindness  they  had  shown  to  him, 
a  stranger  !  Here  were  delicate  bits  of  fried  chicken,  sweet 
and  white,  corn-bread,  a  glass  of  honey,  and  a  bottle  of 
milk.  Nothing  better  need  a  man  ask ;  and  what  animals 
men  are,  after  all,  he  thought,  taking  delight  in  the  mere 
acts  of  eating  and  breathing  and  sleeping. 

Utterly  weary,  he  would  not  trouble  to  open  the  cot 
which  lay  in  the  cabin,  but  rolled  himself  in  his  blanket 
on  the  wide,  flat  rock  at  the  verge  of  the  mountain.  Here, 
warmed  by  the  sun,  he  lay  with  his  face  toward  the  blue 
distance  and  slept  dreamlessly  and  soundly,  —  very 
soundly,  for  he  was  not  awakened  by  a  crackling  of  the 
brush  and  scrambling  of  feet  struggling  up  the  mountain 
wall  below  his  hard  resting-place.  Yet  the  sound  kept 
on,  and  soon  a  head  appeared  above  the  rock,  and  two 
hands  were  placed  upon  it ;  then  a  strong,  catlike  spring 
landed  the  lithe  young  owner  of  the  head  only  a  few  feet 
away  from  the  sleeper. 

It  was  Frale,  his  soft  felt  hat  on  the  back  of  his  head 


Frale's  Confession  37 

and  the  curl  of  dark  hair  falHng  upon  his  forehead.  For 
an  instant,  as  he  gazed  on  the  sleeping  figure,  the  wild  look 
of  fear  was  in  his  eyes ;  then,  as  he  bethought  himself  of 
the  words  of  Aunt  Sally,  "They  is  a  man  thar,"  the  ex- 
pression changed  to  one  more  malevolent  and  repulsive, 
transforming  and  aging  the  boyish  face.  Cautiously 
he  crept  nearer,  and  peered  into  the  face  of  the  uncon- 
scious Englishman.  His  hands  clinched  and  his  lips 
tightened,  and  he  made  a  movement  with  his  foot  as  if 
he  would  spurn  him  over  the  cliff. 

As  suddenly  the  moment  passed ;  he  drew  back  in  shame 
and  looked  down  at  his  hands,  blood-guilty  hands  as  he 
knew  them  to  be,  and,  with  lowered  head,  he  moved  swiftly 
away. 

He  was  a  youth  again,  hungry  and  sad,  stumbling  along 
the  untrodden  way,  avoiding  the  beaten  path,  yet  un- 
erringly taking  his  course  toward  the  cleft  rock  at  the  head 
of  the  fall  behind  the  great  holly  tree.  It  was  not  the  food 
Cassandra  had  promised  him  that  he  wanted  now,  but 
to  look  into  the  eyes  of  one  who  would  pity  and  love  him. 
Heartsick  and  weary  as  he  never  had  been  in  all  his  young 
life,  lonely  beyond  bearing,  he  hurried  along. 

As  he  forced  a  path  through  the  undergrowth,  he  heard 
the  sound  of  a  mountain  stream,  and,  seeking  it,  he  followed 
along  its  rocky  bed,  leaping  from  one  huge  block  of  stone 
to  another,  and  swinging  himself  across  by  great  over- 
hanging sycamore  boughs,  drawing,  by  its  many  windings, 
nearer  and  nearer  to  the  spot  where  it  precipitated  itself 
over  the  mountain  wall.  Ever  the  noise  of  the  water 
grew  louder,  until  at  last,  making  a  slight  detour,  he  came 
upon  the  very  edge  of  the  descent,  where  he  could  look 
down  and  see  his  home  nestled  in  the  cove  at  the  foot  of 
the  fall,  the  blue  smoke  curling  upward  from  its  great 
chimney. 

He  seated  himself  upon  a  jutting  rock  well  screened  by 
laurel  shrubs  on  all  sides  but  the  one  toward  the  fall. 
There,  his  knees  clasped  about  with  his  arms,  and  his 
chin  resting  upon  them,  he  sat  and  watched. 

Behind  the  leafage  and  tangle  of  bare  stems  and  twigs, 
he  was  so  far  above  and  so  directly  over  the  spot  on  which 
his  gaze  was  fixed  as  to  be  out  of  the  usual  range  of  sight 
from  below,  thus  enabling  him  to  see  plainly  what  was 


38  The  Mountain  Girl 

transpiring  about  the  house  and  sheds,  without  himself 
being  seen. 

Long  and  patiently  he  waited.  Once  a  dog  barked,  — 
his  own  dog  Nig.  Some  one  must  be  approaching.  What 
if  the  little  creature  should  seek  him  out  and  betray  him  ! 
He  quivered  with  the  thought.  The  day  before  he  had 
driven  him  down  the  mountain,  beating  him  off  whenever 
he  returned.  Should  the  animal  persist  in  tracking  him, 
he  would  kill  him. 

He  peered  more  eagerly  down,  and  saw  little  Hoyle  run 
out  of  the  cow  shed  and  twist  himself  this  way  and  thai 
to  see  up  and  down  the  road.  Both  the  child  and  the  dog 
seemed  excited.  Yes,  there  they  were,  three  horsemen 
coming  along  the  highway.  Now  they  were  dismounting 
and  questioning  the  boy.  Now  they  disappeared  in  the 
house.  He  did  not  move.  Why  were  they  so  long  within  ? 
Hours,  it  seemed  to  Frale,  but  in  reality  it  was  only  a  short 
search  they  were  making  there.  They  were  longer  looking 
about  the  sheds  and  yard.  Hoyle  accompanied  them 
everywhere,  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  standing  about, 
shivering  with  excitement. 

All  around  they  went  peering  and  searching,  thrusting 
their  arms  as  far  as  they  could  reach  into  the  stacks  of 
fodder,  looking  into  troughs  and  corn  sacks,  setting  the 
fowls  to  cackling  wildly,  even  hauling  out  the  long  corn 
stalks  from  the  wagon  which  had  served  to  make  Thryng's 
ride  the  night  before  comfortable.  No  spot  was  over- 
looked. 

Frequently  they  stood  and  parleyed.  Then  Frale's 
heart  would  sink  within  him.  What  if  they  should  set 
Nig  to  track  him  !  Ah,  he  would  strangle  the  beast  and 
pitch  him  over  the  fall.  He  would  spring  over  after  him 
before  he  would  let  himself  be  taken  and  hanged.  Oh, 
he  could  feel  the  strangling  rope  around  his  neck  already  ! 
He  could  not  bear  it  —  he  could  not ! 

Thus  cowering,  he  waited,  starting  at  every  sound  from 
below  as  if  to  run,  then  sinking  back  in  fear,  breathless 
with  the  pounding  of  his  heart  in  his  breast.  Now  the 
voices  came  up  to  him  painfully  clear.  They  were  talking 
to  little  Hoyle  angrily.  What  they  were  saying  he  could 
not  make  out,  but  he  again  cautiously  lifted  his  head  and 
looked  below.     Suddenly  the  child  drew  back  and  lifted 


Frale's  Confession  39 

his  arm  as  if  to  ward  off  a  blow,  but  the  blow  came.  Frale 
saw  one  of  the  men  turn  as  he  mounted  his  horse  to  ride 
away,  and  cut  the  boy  cruelly  across  his  face  and  arm 
with  his  rawhide  whip.  The  little  one's  shriek  of  fright 
and  pain  pierced  his  big  brother  to  the  heart  and  caused 
him  to  forget  for  the  moment  his  own  abject  fear. 

He  made  as  if  he  would  leap  the  intervening  space  to 
punish  the  brute,  but  a  cry  of  anger  died  in  his  throat 
as  he  realized  his  situation.  The  selfishness  of  his  fear, 
however,  was  dispelled,  and  he  no  longer  cringed  as  be- 
fore, but  had  the  courage  again  to  watch,  awake  and  alert 
to  all  that  passed  beneath  him. 

Hoyle's  cry  brought  Cassandra  out  of  the  house  flying. 
She  walked  up  to  the  man  like  an  angry  tigress.  Frale 
rose  to  his  knees  and  strained  eagerly  forward. 

"If  you  are  such  a  coward  you  must  hit  something 
small  and  weak,  you  can  strike  a  woman.  Hit  me,"  she 
panted,  putting  the  child  behind  her. 

Muttering,  the  man  rode  sullenly  away.  "He  no  busi- 
ness hangin'  roun'  we-uns,  list'nin'  to  all  we  say." 

Frale  could  not  make  out  the  words,  but  his  face  burned 
red  with  rage.  Had  he  been  in  hiding  down  below,  he 
would  have  wreaked  vengeance  on  the  man ;  as  it  was,  he 
stood  up  and  boldly  watched  them  ride  away  in  the  oppo- 
site direction  from  which  they  had  come. 

He  sank  back  and  waited,  and  again  the  hours  passed. 
All  was  still  but  the  rushing  water  and  the  gentle  soughing 
of  the  wind  in  the  tops  of  the  towering  pines.  At  last  he 
heard  a  rustling  and  sniffing  here  and  there.  His  heart 
stood  still,  then  pounded  again  in  terror.  They  had  — 
they  had  set  Nig  to  track  him.  Of  course  the  dog  would 
seek  for  his  old  friend  and  comrade,  and  they  —  they 
would  wait  until  they  heard  his  bark  of  joy,  and  then  they 
would  seize  him. 

He  crept  close  to  the  rock  where  the  water  rushed,  not 
a  foot  away,  and  clinging  to  the  tough  laurel  behind  him, 
leaned  far  over.  To  drop  down  there  would  mean  instant 
death  on  the  rocks  below.  It  would  be  terrible  —  almost 
as  horrible  as  the  strangling  rope.  He  would  wait  until 
they  were  on  him,  and  then  —  nearer  and  nearer  came  the 
erratic  trotting  and  scratching  of  the  dog  among  the 
leaves  —  and  then,  if  only  he  could  grapple  with  the  man 


40  The  Mountain  Girl 

who  had  struck  his  little  brother,  he  would  drag  him  over 
with  him.  A  look  of  fierce  joy  leaped  in  his  eyes,  which 
were  drawn  to  a  narrow  blue  gleam  as  he  waited. 

Suddenly  Nig  burst  through  the  undergrowth  and  sprang 
to  his  side,  but  before  the  dog  could  give  his  first  bark  of 
delight  the  yelp  was  crushed  in  his  throat,  and  he  was 
hurled  with  the  mighty  force  of  frenzy,  a  black,  writhing 
streak  of  animate  nature  into  the  rushing  water,  and  there 
swept  down,  tossed  on  the  rocks,  taken  up  and  swirled 
about  and  thrown  again  upon  the  rocks,  no  longer  animate, 
but  a  part  of  nature's  own,  to  return  to  'his  primal  ele- 
ments. 

It  was  done,  and  Frale  looked  at  his  hands  helplessly, 
feeling  himself  a  second  time  a  murderer.  Yet  he  was  in 
no  way  more  to  blame  for  the  first  than  for  this.  As  yet 
a  boy  untaught  by  life,  he  had  not  learned  what  to  do  with 
the  forces  within  him.  They  rose  up  madly  and  mastered 
him.  With  a  man's  power  to  love  and  hate,  a  man's 
instincts,  his  untamed  nature  ready  to  assert  itself  for 
tenderness  or  cruelty,  without  a  man's  knowledge  of  the 
necessity  for  self-control,  where  some  of  his  kind  would 
have  been  inert  and  listless,  his  inheritance  had  made  him 
intense  and  fierce.  Loving  and  gentle  and  kind  he  could 
be,  yet  when  stirred  by  liquor,  or  anger,  or  fear,  —  most 
terrible. 

His  deed  had  been  accomplished  with  such  savage 
deftness  that  none  pursuing  could  have  guessed  the  trag- 
edy. They  might  have  waited  long  in  the  open  spaces 
for  the  dog's  return  or  the  sound  of  his  joyous  yelp  of  recog- 
nition, but  the  sacrifice  was  needless.  The  affectionate 
creature  had  been  searching  on  his  own  behalf,  careless 
of  the  blows  with  which  his  master  had  driven  him  from 
his  side  the  day  before. 

Trembling,  Frale  crouched  again.  The  silence  was  filled 
with  pain  for  him.  The  moments  swept  on,  even  as  the 
water  rushed  on,  and  the  sun  began  to  drop  behind  the 
hills,  leaving  the  hollows  in  deepening  purple  gloom.  At 
last,  deeming  that  the  search  for  the  time  must  have  been 
given  up,  he  crept  cautiously  toward  the  great  holly  tree, 
not  for  food,  but  for  hope.  There,  back  in  the  shadow, 
he  sat  on  a  huge  log,  his  head  bowed  between  his  hands, 
and  listened. 
'4t 


Frale's  Confession  41 

Presently  the  silence  was  broken  by  a  gentle  stirring  of 
the  fallen  leaves,  not  erratically  this  time,  only  a  steady 
moving  forward  of  human  feet.  Again  Frale's  heart 
bounded  and  the  red  sought  his  cheek,  but  now  with  a  new 
emotion.  He  knew  of  but  one  footstep  which  would  ad- 
vance toward  his  ambush  in  that  way.  Peering  out  from 
among  the  deepest  shadows,  he  watched  the  spot  where 
Cassandra  had  promised  food  should  be  placed  for  him, 
his  eyes  no  longer  a  narrow  slit  of  blue,  but  wide  and  glad, 
his  face  transformed  from  the  strain  of  fear  with  eager 

joy. 

Soon  she  emerged,  walking  wearily.  She  carried  a 
bundle  of  food  tied  in  a  cloth,  and  an  old  overcoat  of  rough 
material  trailed  over  one  arm.  These  she  deposited  on  the 
flat  stone,  then  stood  a  moment  leaning  against  the  smooth 
gray  bole  of  the  holly  tree,  breathing  quickly  from  the 
exertion  of  the  steep  climb. 

Her  eyes  followed  the  undulating  line  of  the  mountain 
above  them,  rising  tree-fringed  against  the  sky,  to  where  the 
highest  peak  cut  across  the  setting  sun,  haloed  by  its  long 
rays  of  gold.  No  cloud  was  there,  but  sweeping  down 
the  mountain  side  were  the  earth  mists,  glowing  with 
iridescent  tints,  draping  the  crags  and  floating  over  the 
purple  hollows,  the  verdure  of  the  pines  showing  through 
it  all,  gilded  and  glorified. 

Cassandra  waiting  there  might  have  been  the  dryad  of 
the  tree  come  out  to  worship  in  the  evening  light  and  grow 
beautiful.  So  Thryng  would  have  thought,  could  he  have 
seen  her  with  the  glow  on  her  face,  and  in  her  eyes,  and 
lighting  up  the  fires  in  her  hair ;  but  no  such  classic  dream 
came  to  the  youth  lingering  among  the  shadows,  ashamed 
to  appear  before  her,  bestowing  on  her  a  dumb  adoration, 
unformed  and  wordless. 

Because  his  friend  had  maudlinly  boasted  that  he  was 
the  better  man  in  her  eyes,  and  could  any  day  win  her  for 
himself,  he  had  killed  him.  Despite  all  the  anguish  the 
deed  had  wrought  in  his  soul,  he  felt  unrepentant  now, 
as  his  eyes  rested  on  her.  He  would  do  it  again,  and  yet 
it  was  that  very  boast  that  had  first  awakened  in  his  heart 
such  thought  of  her. 

For  years  Cassandra  had  been  as  his  sister,  although  no 
tie  of  blood  existed  between  them,  but  suddenly  the  idea  of 


42  The  Mountain  Girl 

possession  had  sprung  to  life  in  him,  when  another  had 
assumed  the  right  as  his.  Frale  had  not  looked  on  her 
since  that  moment  of  revelation,  of  which  she  was  so  igno- 
rant and  so  innocent.  Now,  filled  with  the  shame  of  his 
deed  and  his  desires,  he  stood  in  a  torment  of  longing, 
not  daring  to  move.  His  knees  shook  and  his  arms  ached 
at  his  sides,  and  his  eyes  filled  with  hot  tears. 

Quickly  the  sun  dropped  below  the  edge  of  the  moun- 
tain. Cassandra  drew  a  long  sigh,  and  the  glow  left  her 
face.  She  looked  an  instant  lingeringly  at  the  articles 
she  had  brought,  and  turned  sadly  away.  Then  he  took 
a  step  toward  her  with  hands  outstretched,  forgetful  of 
his  shame,  and  all,  except  that  she  was  slipping  away  from 
him.  Arrested  by  the  sound  of  his  feet  among  the  leaves, 
she  spoke. 

"Frale,  are  you  there?"  Her  voice  was  low  as  if  she 
feared  other  ears  than  his  might  hear. 

He  did  not  move  again,  and  speak  he  could  not,  for 
remembrance  rushed  back  stiflingly  and  overwhelmed 
him.  Descrying  his  white  face  in  the  shadow,  a  pity  as 
deep  as  his  shame  filled  her  heart  and  drew  her  nearer. 

"Why,  Frale,  come  out  here.  No  one  can  see  you, 
only  me.'* 

Still  tongue-tied  by  his  emotion,  he  came  into  the  light 
and  stood  near  her.  In  dismay  she  looked  up  in  his 
face.  The  big  boy  brother  who  had  taken  her  to  the 
little  Carew  Crossing  station  only  two  months  before, 
rough  and  prankish  as  the  colt  he  drove,  but  gentle  withal, 
was  gone.  He  who  stood  at  her  side  was  older.  Anger 
had  left  its  mark  about  his  mouth,  and  fear  had  put  a 
strange  wildness  in  his  eyes  —  but  —  there  was  something 
else  in  his  reckless,  set  lips  that  hurt  her.  She  shrank 
from  him,  and  he  took  a  step  closer.  Then  she  placed  a 
soothing  hand  on  his  arm  and  perceived  he  was  quivering. 
She  thought  she  understood,  and  the  soft  pity  moistened 
her  eyes  and  deepened  in  her  heart. 

"Don't  be  afraid,  Frale;  they're  gone  long  ago,  and 
won't  come  back  —  not  for  a  while,  I  reckon." 

He  smiled  faintly,  never  taking  his  eyes  from  her  face. 
"I  hain't  afeared  o'  them.  I  hev  been,  but — "  He 
shook  her  hand  from  his  arm  and  made  as  if  he  would  push 
her  away,  then  suddenly  he  leaned  toward  her  and  caught 


Frale*s  Confession  43 

her  in  his  arms,  clasping  her  so  closely  that  she  could 
feel  his  wildly  beating  heart. 

"Frale,  Frale  !  Don't,  Frale.  You  never  used  to  do 
me  this  way." 

"No,  I  never  done  you  this-a-way.  I  wisht  I  had.  I 
be'n  a  big  fool."  He  kissed  her,  the  first  kisses  of  his 
young  manhood,  on  brow  and  cheeks  and  lips,  in  spite  of 
her  useless  wri things.  He  continued  muttering  as  he  held 
her:  *'I  sinned  fer  you.  I  killed  a  man.  He  said  he'd 
hev  you.  He  'lowed  he'd  go  down  yander  to  the  school 
whar  you  war  at  an'  marry  you  an'  fetch  you  back.  I 
war  a  fool  to  'low  you  to  go  thar  fer  him  to  foUer  an'  get 
you.     I  killed  him.     He's  dade." 

The  short,  interrupted  sentences  fell  on  her  ears  like 
blows.  She  ceased  struggling  and,  drooping  upon  his 
bosom,  wept,  sobbing  heart-brokenly. 

"Oh,  Frale!"  she  moaned,  "if  you  had  only  told  me, 
I  could  have  given  you  my  promise  and  you  would  have 
known  he  was  lying  and  spared  him  and  saved  your  own 
soul."  He  little  knew  the  strength  of  his  arms  as  he  held 
her.     "Frale!  I  am  like  to  perish,  you  are  hurting  me  so." 

He  loosed  her  and  she  sank,  a  weary,  frightened  heap, 
at  his  feet.  Then  very  tenderly  he  gathered  her  in  his 
arms  and  carried  her  to  the  great  flat  rock  and  placed  her 
on  the  old  coat  she  had  brought  him. 

"You  know  I  wouldn't  hurt  you  fer  the  hull  world, 
Cass."  He  knelt  beside  her,  and  throwing  his  arms  across 
her  lap  buried  his  face  in  her  dress,  still  trembling  with  his 
unmastered  emotion.     She  thought  him  sobbing. 

"Can  you  give  me  your  promise  now,  Cass  ?'* 

"Now  ?  Now,  Frale,  your  hands  are  blood-guilty,"  she 
said,  slowly  and  hopelessly. 

He  grew  cold  and  still,  waiting  in  the  silence.  His 
hands  clutched  her  clothing,  but  he  did  not  lift  his  head. 
He  had  shed  blood  and  had  lost  her.  They  might  take 
him  and  hang  him.  At  last  he  told  her  so,  brokenly,  and 
she  knew  not  what  to  do. 

Gently  she  placed  her  hand  on  his  head  and  drew  the 
thick  silken  hair  through  her  fingers,  and  the  touch,  to 
his  stricken  soul,  was  a  benediction.  The  pity  of  her 
cooled  the  fever  in  his  blood  and  swept  over  his  spirit 
the  breath  of  healing.     For  the  first  time,  after  the  sin 


44  The  Mountain  Girl 

and  the  horror  of  it,  after  the  passion  and  its  anguish, 
came  tears.     He  wept  and  wiped  his  tears  with  her  dress. 

Then  she  told  him  how  her  mother  had  been  hurt. 
How  Hoyle  had  driven  the  half-broken  colt  and  the  mule 
all  the  way  to  Carew's  alone,  to  bring  her  home,  and  how 
he  had  come  nigh  being  killed.  How  a  gentleman  had 
helped  her  when  the  colt  tried  to  run  and  the  mule  was 
mean,  and  how  she  had  brought  him  home  with  her. 

Then  he  lifted  his  head  and  looked  at  her,  his  haggard 
face  drawn  with  suffering,  and  the  calmness  of  her  eyes 
still  further  soothed  and  comforted  him.  They  were 
filled  with  big  tears,  and  he  knew  the  tears  were  for  him, 
for  the  change  which  had  come  upon  him,  lonely  and 
wretched,  doomed  to  hide  out  on  the  mountain,  his  clothes 
torn  by  the  brambles  and  soiled  by  the  red  clay  of  the 
holes  into  which  he  had  crawled  to  hide  himself.  He  rose 
and  sat  at  her  side  and  held  her  head  on  his  shoulder 
with  gentle  hand. 

"Pore  little  sister  —  pore  little  Cass!  I  been  awful 
mean  an'  bad,"  he  murmured.  "Hit's  a  badness  I  cyan't 
'count  fer  no  ways.     When  I  seed  that  thar  doc t ah  man 

—  I  reckon  hit  war  him  I  seed  lyin'  asleep  up  yander  on 
Hangin'  Rock  —  a  big  tall  man,  right  thin  an'  white  in  the 
face  — "  he  paused  and  swallowed  as  if  loath  to  continue. 

"Frale  ! "  she  cried,  and  would  have  drawn  away  but  that 
he  held  her. 

"L  didn't  hurt  him,  Cass.  I  mount  hev.  I  lef  him  lie 
thar  an'  never  woke  him  nor  teched  him,  but  —  I  felt  hit 
here  —  the  badness."  He  struck  his  chest  with  his  fist. 
"I  lef  thar  fast  an'  come  here.  Ever  sence  I  killed  Ferd, 
hit's  be'n  follerin'  me  that-a-way.  I  reckon  I'm  cursed 
to  hell-fire  fer  hit  now,  ef  they  take  me  er  ef  they  don't 

—  hit's  all  one ;  hit's  thar  whar  I'm  goin'  at  the  las'." 
"Frale,  there  is  a  way  — " 

"Yes,  they  is  one  way  —  only  one.  Ef  you'll  give  me 
your  promise,  Cass,  I'll  get  away  down  these  mountains, 
an'  I'll  work ;  I'll  work  hard  an'  get  you  a  house  like  one 
I  seed  to  the  settlement,  Cass,  I  will.  Hit's  you,  Cass. 
Ever  sence  Ferd  said  that  word,  I  be'n  plumb  out'n  my 
hade.  Las'  night  I  slep'  in  Wild  Cat  Hole,  an'  I  war  that 
hungered  an'  lone,  I  tried  to  pray  like  your  maw  done 
teached  me,  an'  I  couldn'  think  of  nothin'  to  say,  on'y 


Frale's  Confession  45 

just,    '  Oh,  Lord,  Cass  ! '     That-a-way  —  on*y  your  name, 
Cass,  Cass,  all  night  long." 

'*I  reckon  Satan  put  my  name  in  your  heart,  Frale; 
'pears  to  me  like  it  is  sin." 

"Naw !  Satan  nevah  put  your  name  thar.  He  don't 
meddle  with  sech  as  you.  He  war  a-tryin'  to  get  your 
name  out'n  my  heart,  that's  what  he  war  tryin',  fer  he 
knowed  I'd  go  bad  right  quick  ef  he  could.  Hit  war  your 
name  kep'  my  hands  off'n  that  doctah  man  thar  on  the 
rock.  Give  me  your  promise  now,  Cass.  Hit'll  save 
me." 

"Then  why  didn't  it  save  you  from  killing  Ferd.^"  she 
asked. 

"O  Gawd  !"  he  moaned,  and  was  silent. 

"Listen,  Frale,"  she  said  at  last.  "Can't  you  see  it's  sin 
for  you  and  me  to  sit  here  like  this  —  like  we  dared  to  be 
sweethearts,  when  j^ou  have  shed  blood  for  this  .^  Take 
your  hands  off  me,  and  let  me  go  down  to  mothah." 

Slowly  his  hold  relaxed  and  his  head  drooped,  but  he 
did  not  move  his  arms.  She  pushed  them  gently  from 
her  and  stood  a  moment  looking  down  at  him.  His  arms 
dropped  upon  the  stone  at  his  side,  listless  and  empty, 
and  again  her  pitying  soul  reached  out  to  him  and  envel- 
oped him. 

"Frale,  there  is  just  one  way  that  I  can  give  you  my 
promise,"  she  said.  He  held  out  his  arms  to  her.  "No, 
I  can't  sit  that  way;  you  can  see  that.  The  good  book 
says,  'Ye  must  repent  and  be  born  again.'"  He  groaned 
and  covered  his  face  with  his  hands.  "Then  you  would  be 
a  new  man,  without  sin.  I  reckon  you  have  suffered  a 
heap,  and  repented  a  heap  —  since  you  did  that,  Frale  ?" 

"I'm  'feared  —  I'm  'feared  ef  he  war  here  an'  riled  me 
agin  like  he  done  that  time  —  I'm  'feared  I'd  do  hit  agin 
—  like  he  war  talkin'  'bouts  you,  Cass."  He  rose  and 
stood  close  to  her. 

The  soft  dusk  was  wrapping  them  about,  and  she  began 
to  fear  lest  she  lose  her  control  over  him.  She  took  up 
the  bundle  of  food  and  placed  it  in  his  hand. 

"Here,  take  this,  and  the  coat,  too,  Frale.  Come  down 
and  have  suppah  with  mothah  and  me  to-night,  and  sleep 
in  your  own  bed.  They  won't  search  here  for  one  while, 
I  reckon,  and  you'll  be  safah  than  hiding  in  Wild  Cat  Hole. 


46  The  Mountain  Girl 

Hoyle  heard  them  say  they  reckoned  you'd  lit  off  down 
the  mountain,  and  were  hiding  in  some  near-by  town. 
They'll  hunt  you  there  first ;  come." 

She  walked  on,  and  he  obediently  followed.  **When 
we  get  nigh  the  house,  I'll  go  first  and  see  if  the  way  is 
clear.  You  wait  back.  If  I  want  you  to  run,  I'll  call 
twice,  quick  and  sharp,  but  if  I  want  you  to  come  right  in, 
I'll  call  once,  low  and  long." 

After  that  no  word  was  spoken.  They  clambered  down 
the  steep,  winding  path,  and  not  far  from  the  house  she 
left  him.  She  wondered  Nig  did  not  bound  out  to  greet 
her,  but  supposed  he  must  be  curled  up  near  the  hearth  in 
comfort.  Frale  also  thought  of  the  dog  as  he  sat  cowering 
under  the  laurel  shrubs,  and  set  his  teeth  in  anguish  and 
sorrow. 

*'Cass'll  hate  hit  when  she  finds  out,"  he  muttered. 

After  a  moment,  waiting  and  listening,  he  heard  her 
long,  low  call  float  out  to  him.  Falling  on  his  hurt  spirit, 
it  sounded  heavenly  sweet. 


CHAPTER  V 

IN  WHICH  CASSANDRA  GOES  TO  DAVID  WITH  HER  TROUBLE, 
AND    GIVES   FRALE   HER   PROMISE 

After  his  sleep  on  Hanging  Rock,  David,  allured  by  the 
sunset,  remained  long  in  his  doorway  idly  smoking  his 
pipe,  and  ruminating,  until  a  normal  and  delightful  hunger 
sent  him  striding  down  the  winding  path  toward  the 
blazing  hearth  where  he  had  found  such  kindly  welcome 
the  evening  before.  There,  seated  tilted  back  against  the 
chimney  side,  he  found  a  huge  youth,  innocent  of  face  and 
gentle  of  mien,  who  rose  as  he  entered  and  offered  him  his 
chair,  and  smiled  and  tossed  back  a  falling  lock  from  his 
forehead  as  he  gave  him  greeting. 

"This  hyar  is  Doctah  Thryng,  Frale,  who  done  me  up 
this-a-way.  He  'lows  he's  goin'  to  git  me  well  so's  I  can 
walk  again.  How  air  you,  suh  ?  You  certainly  do  look  a 
heap  better 'n  when  you  come  las'  evenin'." 

"So  I  am,  indeed.  x\ndyou.'^"  David's  voice  rang 
out  gladly.  He  went  to  the  bed  and  bent  above  the  old 
woman,  looking  her  over  carefully.  "Are  you  comfort- 
able ?     Do  the  weights  hurt  you  ?  "  he  asked. 

"I  cyan't  say  as  they  air  right  comfortable,  but  ef 
they'll  help  me  to  git  'round  agin,  I  reckon  I  can  bar  hit." 

Early  that  morning,  with  but  the  simplest  means,  David 
had  arranged  bandages  and  weights  of  wood  to  hold  her 
in  position. 

She  was  so  slight  he  hoped  the  broken  hip  might  right 
itself  wdth  patience  and  care,  more  especially  as  he  learned 
that  her  age  was  not  so  advanced  as  her  appearance  had 
led  him  to  suppose. 

Now  all  suspicion  of  him  seemed  to  have  vanished  from 
the  household.  Hoyle,  happy  when  the  fascinating  doctor 
noticed  him,  leaned  against  his  chair,  drinking  in  his  words 
eagerly.  But  when  Thryng  drew  him  to  his  knee  and 
discovered  the  cruel  mark  across  his  face  and  asked  how 
it  had  happened,  a  curious  change  crept  over  them  all. 
Every  face  became  as  expressionless  as  a  mask ;  only  the 

47 


48  The  Mountain  Girl 

boy's  eyes  sought  his  brother's,  then  turned  with  a  fright- 
ened look  toward  Cassandra  as  if  seeking  help. 

Thryng  persisted  in  his  examination,  and  lifted  the  boy's 
face  toward  the  light.  If  the  big  brother  had  done  this 
deed,  he  should  be  made  to  feel  shame  for  it.  The  welt 
barely  escaped  the  eye,  which  was  swollen  and  discolored ; 
and  altogether  the  face  presented  a  pitiable  appearance. 

As  David  talked,  the  hard  look  which  had  been  exor- 
cised for  a  time  by  the  gentle  influence  of  that  home,  and 
more  than  all  by  the  sight  of  Cassandra  performing  the 
gracious  services  of  the  household,  settled  again  upon  the 
youth's  face.  His  lips  were  drawn,  and  his  eyes  ceased 
following  Cassandra,  and  became  fixed  and  narrowed  on 
one  spot. 

"You  have  come  near  losing  that  splendid  eye  of  yours, 
do  you  know  that,  little  chap  V  Hoyle  grinned.  "It's  a 
shame,  you  know.  I  have  something  up  at  the  cabin  would 
help  to  heal  this,  but — "  he  glanced  about  the  room  — 
"  What  are  those  dried  herbs  up  there  V^ 

"  Thar  is  witch  hazel  yandah  in  the  cupboard.  Cass,  ye 
mount  bile  some  up  fer  th'  doctah,"  said  the  mother. 
"Tell  th'  doctah  hu-come  hit  happened,  son;  you 
hain't  af eared  of  him,  be  ye?"  x\  trampling  of  horse's 
hoofs  was  heard  outside.  "Go  up  garret  to  your  own 
place,  Frale.  What  ye  bid'n  here  f er  ?  "  she  added,  in  a 
hushed  voice,  but  the  youth  sat  doggedly  still. 

Cassandra  went  out  and  quickly  returned.  "  It's  your 
own  horse,  Frale.  Poor  beast !  He's  limping  like  he's 
been  hurt.  He's  loose  out  there.  You  better  look  to 
him." 

"  Uncle  Carew  rode  him  down  an'  lef  him,  I  reckon." 
Frale  rose  and  went  out,  and  David  continued  his  care  of 
the  child. 

"How  was  it }     Did  your  brother  hurt  you  } " 

"Naw.  He  nevah  hurted  me  all  his  life.  Hit  —  war 
my  own  se'f  — " 

Cassandra  patted  the  child  on  his  shoulder.  "  He  can't 
beah  to  tell  hu-come  he  is  hurted  this  w^ay,  he  is  that 
proud.  It  was  a  mean,  bad,  coward  man  fetched  him  such 
a  blow  across  the  face.  He  asked  little  son  something, 
and  when  Hoyle  nevah  said  a  word,  he  just  lifted  his  arm 
and  hit  him,  and  then  rode  off  like  he  had  pleased  him- 


Cassandra's  Promise  49 

self."  A  flush  of  anger  kindled  in  her  cheeks.  "Nevah 
mind,  son.     Doctah  can  fix  you  up  all  right." 

A  sigh  of  relief  trembled  through  the  boy's  lips,  and 
David  asked  no  more  questions. 

"You  hain't  goin'  to  tie  me  up  that-a-way,  be  you.^^" 
He  pointed  to  the  bed  whereon  his  mother  lay,  and  they 
all  laughed,  relieving  the  tension. 

"Naw,"  shrilled  the  mother's  voice,  "but  I  reckon 
doctah  mount  take  off  your  hade  an'  set  hit  on  straight 
agin." 

"I  wisht  he  could,"  cried  the  child,  no  whit  troubled  by 
the  suggestion.  "  I'd  bar  a  heap  fer  to  git  my  hade  straight 
like  Frale's."  Just  then  his  brother  entered  the  room. 
"You  reckon  doctah  kin  take  off  my  hade  an'  set  hit 
straight  like  you  carry  yours,  Frale  ? "  Again  they  all 
laughed,  and  the  big  youth  smiled  such  a  sweet,  infantile 
smile,  as  he  looked  down  on  his  little  brother,  that  David's 
heart  warmed  toward  him. 

He  tousled  the  boy's  hair  as  he  passed  and  drew  him 
along  to' the  chimney  side,  away  from  the  doctor.  "Hit's 
a  right  good  hade  I'm  thinkin'  ef  hit  be  set  too  fer  round. 
They  is  a  heap  in  hit,  too,  more'n  they  is  in  mine,  I  reckon." 

"  He's  gettin'  too  big  to  set  that-a-way  on  your  knee, 
Frale.  Ye  make  a  baby  of  him,"  said  the  mother.  The 
child  made  an  effort  to  slip  down,  but  Frale's  arm  closed 
more  tightly  about  him,  and  he  nestled  back  contentedly. 

So  the  evening  passed,  and  Thryng  retired  early  to  the 
bed  in  the  loom  shed.  He  knew  something  serious  was 
amiss,  but  of  what  nature  he  could  not  conjecture,  unless 
it  were  that  Frale  had  been  making  illicit  whiskey.  What- 
ever it  was,  he  chose  to  manifest  no  curiosity. 

In  the  morning  he  saw  nothing  of  the  young  man,  and  as 
a  warm  rain  was  steadily  falling,  he  was  glad  to  get  the 
use  of  the  horse,  and  rode  away  happily  in  the  rain,  mth 
food  provided  for  both  himself  and  the  beast  sufficient 
for  the  day  slung  in  a  sack  behind  him. 

"Reckon  ye'U  come  back  hyar  this  evenin'.'*"  queried 
the  old  mother,  as  he  adjusted  her  bandages  before  leaving. 

"I'll  see  how  the  cabin  feels  after  I  have  had  a  fire  in 
the  chimney  all  day." 

As  he  left,  he  paused  by  Cassandra's  side.  She  was 
standing  by  the  spout  of  running  water  waiting  for  her 


50  The  Mountain  Girl 

pail  to  fill.     "If  it  happens  that  you  need  me  for  —  any- 
thing at  all,  send  Hoyle,  and  I'll  come  immediately.     Will 

you.p" 

She  lifted  her  eyes  to  his  gratefully.  "Thank  you," 
was  all  she  said,  but  his  look  impelled  more.  "You  are 
right  kind,"  she  added. 

Hardly  satisfied,  he  departed,  but  turned  in  his  saddle  to 
glance  back  at  her.  She  was  swaying  sidewise  with  the 
weight  of  the  full  pail,  straining  one  slender  arm  as  she 
bore  it  into  the  house.  Who  did  all  the  work  there,  he 
wondered.  That  great  youth  ought  to  relieve  her  of  such 
tasks.  Where  was  he  ?  Little  did  he  dream  that  the 
eyes  of  the  great  youth  were  at  that  moment  fixed  darkly 
upon  him  from  the  small  pane  of  glass  set  in  under  the 
cabin  roof,  which  lighted  Frale's  garret  room. 

David  stabled  the  horse  in  the  log  shed  built  by  Doctor 
Hoyle  for  his  own  beast,  —  for  what  is  life  in  the  mountains 
without  a  horse,  —  then  lingered  awhile  in  his  doorway 
looking  out  over  the  billows  of  ranges  seen  dimly  through 
the  fine  veil  of  the  falling  rain.  Ah,  wonderful,  perfect 
world  it  seemed  to  him,  seen  through  the  veil  of  the  rain. 

The  fireplace  in  the  cabin  was  built  of  rough  stone,  wide 
and  high,  and  there  he  made  him  a  brisk  fire  with  fat  pine 
and  brushwood.  He  drew  in  great  logs  which  he  heaped 
on  the  broad  stone  hearth  to  dry.  He  piled  them  on  the 
fire  until  the  flames  leaped  and  roared  up  the  chimney,  so 
long  unused.  He  sat  before  it,  delighting  in  it  like  a  boy 
with  a  bonfire,  and  blessed  his  friend  for  sending  him 
there,  smoking  a  pipe  in  his  honor.  Among  the  doctor's 
few  cooking  utensils  he  found  a  stout  iron  tea-kettle  and 
sallied  out  again  in  the  wet  to  rinse  it  and  fill  it  with  fresh 
water  from  the  spring.  He  had  had  only  coffee  since  leaving 
Canada ;  now  he  would  have  a  good  cup  of  decent  tea,  so 
he  hung  the  kettle  on  the  crane  and  swung  it  over  the  fire. 

In  his  search  for  his  tea,  most  of  his  belongings  were 
unpacked  and  tossed  about  the  room  in  wild  disorder, 
and  a  copy  of  Marius  the  Epicurean  was  brought  to 
light.  His  kettle  boiled  over  into  the  fire,  and  immediately 
the  small  articles  on  his  pine  table  were  shoved  back  in 
confusion  to  make  room  for  his  tea  things,  his  bottle  of 
milk,  his  corn  pone,  and  his  book. 

Being  by  this  time  weary,  he  threw  himself  on  his  couch, 


Cassandra's  Promise  51 

and  contentment  began  —  his  hot  tea  within  reach,  his 
door  wide  open  to  the  sweetness  of  the  day,  his  fire  danc- 
ing and  crackhng  with  good  cheer,  and  his  book  in  his 
hand.  Ah  !  The  dehcious  idleness  and  rest !  No  dis- 
orders to  heal  —  no  bones  to  mend  —  no  problems  to 
solve ;  a  little  sipping  of  his  tea  —  a  little  reading  of  his 
book  —  a  little  luxuriating  in  the  warmth  and  the  pleasant 
odor  of  pine  boughs  burning  —  a  little  dreamy  revery, 
watching  through  the  open  door  the  changing  lights  on 
the  hills,  and  listening  to  an  occasional  bird  note,  liquid 
and  sweet. 

The  hour  drew  near  to  noon  and  the  sky  lightened  and  a 
rift  of  deep  blue  stretched  across  the  open  space  before 
him.  Lazily  he  speculated  as  to  how  he  was  to  get  his 
provisions  brought  up  to  him,  and  when  and  how  he  might 
get  his  mail,  but  laughed  to  think  how  little  he  cared  for 
a  hundred  and  one  things  which  had  filled  his  life  and 
dogged  his  days  ere  this.  Had  he  reached  Nirvana  ? 
Nay,  he  could  still  hunger  and  thirst. 

A  footstep  was  heard  without,  and  a  figure  appeared  in 
his  doorway,  quietly  standing,  making  no  move  to  enter. 
It  was  Cassandra,  and  he  was  pleased. 

*'My  first  visitor  !"  he  exclaimed.  "Come  in,  come  in. 
I'll  make  a  place  for  you  to  sit  in  a  minute."  He  shoved 
the  couch  away  from  before  the  fire,  and  removing  a 
pair  of  trousers  and  a  heap  of  hose  from  one  of  his  splint- 
bottomed  chairs,  he  threw  them  in  a  corner  and  placed  it 
before  the  hearth.  "You  walked,  didn't  you  ?  And  your 
feet  are  wet,  of  course.     Sit  here  and  dry  them." 

She  pushed  back  her  sunbonnet  and  held  out  to  him  a 
quaint  little  basket  made  of  willow  withes,  which  she 
carried,  but  she  took  no  step  forward.  Although  her  lips 
smiled  a  fleeting  wraith  of  a  smile  that  came  and  went 
in  an  instant,  he  thought  her  eyes  looked  troubled  as  she 
lifted  them  to  his  face. 

He  took  the  basket  and  lifted  the  cover.  "  I  brought  you 
some  pa'triges,"  she  said  simply. 

There  lay  three  quail,  and  a  large  sweet  potato,  roasted 
in  the  ashes  on  their  hearth  as  he  had  seen  the  corn  pone 
baked  the  evening  before,  and  a  few  round  white  cakes 
which  he  afterwards  learned  were  beaten  biscuit,  all  warm 
from  the  fire. 


52  The  Mountain  Girl 

*'How  am  I  ever  to  repay  you  people  for  your  kindness 
to  me?"  he  said.  "Come  in  and  dry  your  feet.  Never 
mind  the  mud ;  see  how  I've  tracked  it  in  all  the  morning. 
Come." 

He  led  her  to  the  fire,  and  replenished  it,  while  she  sat 
passively  looking  down  on  the  hearth  as  if  she  scarcely 
heeded  him.  Not  knowing  how  to  talk  to  her,  or  what  to 
do  with  her,  he  busied  himself  trying  to  bring  a  semblance 
of  order  to  the  cabin,  occasionally  dropping  a  remark  to 
which  she  made  no  response.  Then  he  also  relapsed  into 
silence,  and  the  minutes  dragged  —  age-long  minutes,  they 
seemed  to  him. 

In  his  efforts  at  order,  he  spread  his  rug  over  the  couch, 
tossed  a  crimson  cushion  on  it  and  sundry  articles  beneath 
it  to  get  them  out  of  his  way,  then  occupied  himself  with 
his  book,  while  vainly  trying  to  solve  the  riddle  which  his 
enigmatical  caller  presented  to  his  imagination. 

All  at  once  she  rose,  sought  out  a  few  dishes  from  the 
cupboard,  and,  taking  a  neatly  smoothed,  coarse  cloth 
from  the  basket,  spread  it  over  one  end  of  the  table  and 
arranged  thereon  his  dinner.  Quietly  David  watched  her, 
following  her  example  of  silence  until  forced  to  speak. 
Finally  he  decided  to  question  her,  if  only  he  could  think  of 
questions  which  would  not  trespass  on  her  private  affairs, 
when  at  last  she  broke  the  stillness. 

"  I  can't  find  any  coffee.  I  ought  to  have  brought  some ; 
I'll  go  fetch  some  if  you'll  eat  now.  Your  dinner '11  get 
cold." 

He  showed  her  how  he  had  made  tea  and  was  in  no  need 
of  coffee.  "We'll  throw  this  out  and  make  fresh,"  he  said 
gayly.  "Then  you  must  have  a  cup  with  me.  Why,  you 
have  enough  to  eat  here  for  three  people  ! "  She  seemed 
weary  and  sad,  and  he  determined  to  probe  far  enough  to 
elicit  some  confidence,  but  the  more  fluent  he  became,  the 
more  effectively  she  withdrew  from  him. 

"See  here,"  he  said  at  last,  "sit  by  the  table  with  me, 
and  I  will  eat  to  your  heart's  content.  I'll  prepare  you  a 
cup  of  tea  as  I  do  my  own,  and  then  I  want  you  to  drink  it. 
Come." 

She  yielded.  His  way  of  saying  "Come"  seemed  like 
a  command  to  be  obeyed. 

"Nov/,  that  is  more  like."     He  began  his  dinner  with  a 


Cassandra's  Promise  53 

relish.     ** Won't  you   share   this   game  with   me?     It  is 
fine,  you  know." 

He  could  not  think  her  silent  from  embarrassment,  for 
her  poise  seemed  undisturbed  except  for  the  anxious  look 
in  her  eyes.  He  determined  to  fathom  the  cause,  and 
since  no  finesse  availed,  there  remained  but  one  wav,  — 
the  direct  question. 

"What  is  it  .^ "  he  said  kindly.  "Tell  me  the  trouble,  and 
let  me  help  you." 

She  looked  full  into  his  eyes  then,  and  her  lips  quivered. 
Something  rose  in  her  throat,  and  she  swallowed  helplessly. 
It  was  so  hard  for  her  to  speak.  The  trouble  had  struck 
deeper  than  he  dreamed. 

"It  is  a  trouble,  isn't  it  ?     Can't  you  tell  it  to  me  '^.  " 
■  "Yes.     I  reckon  there  isn't  any  trouble  worse  than  ours 
—  no,  I  reckon  there  is  nothing  worse." 

"Why,  ]\Iiss  Cassandra  !" 

"Because  it's  sin,  and  —  and  *the  wages  of  sin  is  death.' " 
Her  tone  was  hopeless,  and  the  sadness  of  it  went  to  his 
heart. 

"Is  it  whiskey  ?"  he  asked. 

"Yes  —  it's  whiskey  'stilling  and  —  worse;  it's — " 
She  turned  deathly  w^hite.  Too  sad  to  weep,  she  still  held 
control  of  her  voice.     "It's  a  heap  worse  — " 

"Don't  try  to  tell  me  what  it  is,"  he  cried.  "Only  tell 
me  how  I  may  help  you.  It's  not  your  sin,  surely,  so  you 
don't  have  to  bear  it." 

"It's  not  mine,  but  I  do  have  to  bear  it.  I  wish  my 
bearing  it  was  all.  Tell  me,  if  —  if  a  man  has  done  — 
such  a  sin,  is  it  right  to  help  him  get  aw^ay  .^  " 

"  If  it  is  that  big  brother  of  yours,  whom  I  saw  last  night, 
I  can't  believe  he  has  done  anything  so  very  wicked.  You 
say  it  is  not  the  whiskey  .^ " 

"Maybe  it  was  the  whiskey  first  —  then  —  I  don't 
know  exactly  how  came  it  —  I  reckon  he  doesn't  himself. 
I  —  he's  not  my  brothah  —  not  rightly,  but  he  has  been 
the  same  as  such.  They  telegraphed  me  to  come  home 
quick.  Bishop  Towahs  told  me  a  little  —  all  he  knew,  — 
but  he  didn't  know  what  all  was  it,  only  some  wrong  to 
call  the  officahs  and  set  them  aftah  Frale  —  poor  Frale. 
He  —  he  told  me  himself  —  last  evening."  She  paused 
again,  and  the  pallor  slowly  left  her  face  and  the  red  surged 


54  The  Mountain  Girl 

into  her  cheeks  and  mounted  to  the  waves  of  her  heavy 
hair. 

"It  is  Frale,  then,  who  is  in  trouble  !  And  you  wish  me 
to  help  him  get  away  ?  "  She  looked  down  and  was  silent. 
"But  I  am  a  stranger,  and  know  nothing  about  the  coun- 
try." 

He  pushed  his  chair  away  from  the  table  and  leaned 
back,  regarding  her  intently. 

"Oh,  I  am  afraid  for  him."  She  put  her  hand  to  her 
throat  and  turned  away  her  face  from  his  searching  eyes, 
in  shame. 

"I  prefer  not  to  know  what  he  has  done.  Just  explain 
to  me  your  plan,  and  how  I  can  help.  You  know  better 
than  I." 

"I  can't  understand  how  comes  it  I  can  tell  you;  you 
are  a  strangah  to  all  of  us  —  and  yet  it  seems  like  it  is 
right.  If  I  could  get  some  clothes  nobody  has  evah  seen 
Frale  weah  —  if  —  I  could  make  him  look  different  from 
a  mountain  boy,  maybe  he  could  get  to  some  town  down 
the  mountain,  and  find  work  ;  but  now  they  would  meet  up 
with  him  before  he  was  halfway  there." 

Thryng  rose  and  began  pacing  the  room.  "Is  there  any 
hurry  .?"  he  demanded,  stopping  suddenly  before  her. 

"Yes." 

"Then  why  have  you  waited  all  this  time  to  tell  me  ? " 

She  lifted  her  eyes  to  his  in  silence,  and  he  knew  well 
that  she  had  not  spoken  because  she  could  not,  and  that 
had  he  not  ventured  with  his  direct  questions,  she  would 
have  left  him,  carrying  her  burden  with  her,  as  hopelessly 
silent  as  when  she  came. 

He  sat  beside  her  again  and  gently  urged  her  to  tell  him 
without  further  delay  all  she  had  in  her  mind.  "You  feel 
quite  sure  that  if  he  could  get  down  the  mountain  side 
without  being  seen,  he  would  be  safe ;  where  do  you  mean  to 
send  him  ?     You  don't  think  he  would  try  to  return  ?  " 

"  Why  —  no,  I  reckon  not  —  if  —  I  —  "  Her  face  flamed, 
and  she  drew  on  her  bonnet,  hiding  the  crimson  flush  in 
its  deep  shadow.  She  knew  that  without  the  promise  he 
had  asked,  the  boy  would  as  surely  return  as  that  the  sun 
would  continue  to  rise  and  set. 

"He  must  stay,"  she  spoke  desperately  and  hurriedly. 
"If  he  can  just  make  out  to  stay  long  enough  to  learn  a 


Cassandra^s  Promise  55 

little  —  how  to  live,  and  will  keep  away  from  bad  men  — 
if  I  —  he  only  knows  enough  to  make  mean  corn  liquor 
now  —  but  he  nevah  was  bad.  He  has  always  been  differ- 
ent —  and  he  is  awful  smart.  I  can't  think  how  came  he 
to  change  so." 

Taking  the  empty  basket  with  her,  she  walked  toward  the 
door,  and  David  followed  her.  "Thank  you  for  that  good 
dinner,"  he  said. 

"xA-unt  Sally  fetched  the  pa'triges.  Her  old  man  got 
them  for  mothah,  and  she  said  you  sure  ought  to  have  half. 
Sally  said  the  sheriff  had  gone  back  up  the  mountain,  and 
I'm  afraid  he'll  come  to  our  place  again  this  evening.  Likely 
they're  breaking  up  Frale's  'still'  now." 

"Well,  that  will  be  a  good  deed,  won't  it  ? " 

The  huge  bonnet  had  hid  her  face  from  him,  but  now  she 
lifted  her  eyes  frankly  to  his,  with  a  flash  of  radiance 
through  her  tears.     "I  reckon,"  was  all  she  said. 

"Are  they  likely  to  come  up  here,  do  you  think,  those 


men 


P" 


Not  hardly.  They  would  have  to  search  on  foot  here. 
It's  out  of  their  way;  only  no  place  on  the  mountain  is 
safe  for  Frale  now." 

"Send  him  to  me  quickly,  then.  I  have  cast  my  lot 
with  you  mountain  people  for  some  time  to  come,  and  your 
cause  shall  be  mine." 

She  paused  at  the  door  with  grateful  words  on  her  lips 
unuttered. 

"Don't  stop  for  thanks.  Miss  Cassandra;  they  are 
wasted  between  us.  You  have  opened  your  doors  to  me, 
a  stranger,  and  that  is  enough.  Hurry,  don't  grieve  — 
and  see  here :  I  may  not  be  able  to  do  anything,  but  I'll 
try;  and  if  I  can't  get  down  to-night,  won't  you  come 
again  in  the  morning  and  tell  me  all  about  it .?  " 

Instantly  he  thought  better  of  his  request,  yet  who  was 
here  to  criticise  ?  He  laughed  as  he  thought  how  firmly 
the  world  and  its  conventions  held  him.  Sweet,  simple- 
hearted  child  that  she  was,  why,  indeed,  should  she  not 
come  .^  Still  he  called  after  her.  "If  you  are  too  busy, 
send  Hoyle.     I  may  be  down  to  see  your  mother,  anyway.'* 

She  paused  an  instant  in  her  hurried  walk.  "I'll  be  right 
glad  to  come,  if  I  can  help  you  any  way." 

He  stood  watching  her  until  she  passed  below  his  view. 


56  The  Mountain  Girl 

as  her  long  easy  steps  took  her  rapidly  on,  although  she 
seemed  to  move  slowly.  Then  he  went  back  to  his  fire, 
and  her  words  repeated  themselves  insistently  in  his  mind 

—  "I'll  be  right  glad  to  come,  if  I  can  help  you  anyway." 
Aunt  Sally  was  seated  in  the  chimney-corner  smoking, 

when  Cassandra  returned.     "Where  is  he.^^"  she  cried. 

"He  couldn't  set  a  minute,  he  was  that  restless.  He 
'lowed  he'd  go  up  to  the  rock  whar  you  found  him  las' 
evenm  . 

Without  a  word,  Cassandra  turned  and  fled  up  the  steep 
toward  the  head  of  the  fall.  Every  moment,  she  knew, 
was  precious.  Frale  met  her  halfway  down  and  took  her 
hand,  leading  her  as  he  had  been  used  to  do  when  she  was 
his  "little  sister,"  and  listened  to  her  plans  docilely  enough. 

"I  mean  you  to  go  down  to  Farington,  to  Bishop 
Towahs'.  He  will  give  you  work."  She  had  not  men- 
tioned Thryng. 

Frale  laughed. 

"Don't,  Frale.     How  can  you  laugh  .f^" 

"I  ra'ly  hain't  laughin',  Cass.  Seems  like  you  fo'get 
how  can  I  get  down  the  mountain;   but  I  reckon  I'll  try 

—  if  you  say  so." 

Then  she  explained  how  the  doctor  had  sent  for  him 
to  come  up  there  quickly,  and  how  he  would  help  him. 
"You  must  go  now,  Frale,  you  hear  .^^     Now!" 

Again  he  laughed,  bitterly  this  time.  "  Yas  —  I  reckon 
he'll  be  right  glad  to  help  me  get  away  from  you.  I'll  go 
myse'f  in  my  own  way." 

Under  the  holly  tree  they  had  paused,  and  suddenly  she 
feared  lest  the  boy  at  her  side  return  to  his  mood  of  the 
evening  before.  She  seized  his  hand  again  and  hurried 
him  farther  up  the  steep. 

"Come,  come!"  she  cried.     "I'll  go  with  you,  Frale." 

"Naw,  you  won't  go  with  me  neithah,"  he  said  stub- 
bornly, drawing  back. 

"Frale  !"  she  pleaded.     "Hear  to  me." 

"I'm  a-hstenin'." 

"Frale,  I'm  afraid.  They  may  be  on  their  way  now. 
For  all  we  know  they  may  be  right  nigh." 

"I've  done  got  used  to  fearin'  now.  Hit  don't  hurt 
none.     On'y  one  thing  hurts  now." 

"I've  been  up  to  see  Doctor  Thryng,  and  he's  promised 


Cassandra's  Promise  57 

he'll  fix  you  up  some  way  so  that  if  anybody  does  see  you, 
they  —  they'll  think  you  belong  somewhere  else,  and 
nevah  guess  who  you  be.     Frale,  go." 

He  held  her,  with  his  arm  about  her  waist,  half  carrying 
her  with  him,  instead  of  allowing  her  to  move  her  own  free 
gait,  and  she  tried  vainly  with  her  fingers  to  pull  his  hands 
away;  but  his  muscles  were  like  iron  under  her  touch. 
He  felt  her  helplessness  and  liked  it.  Her  voice  shook  as 
she  pleaded  with  him. 

*'0h,  Frale  !     Hear  to  me  !"  she  wailed. 

"I'll  hear  to  you,  ef  you'll  hear  to  me.  Seems  like  I've 
lost  my  fear  now.  I  hain't  carin*  no  more.  Ef  I  should 
see  the  sheriff  this  minute,  an'  he  war  a-puttin'  his  rope 
round  my  neck  right  now,  I  wouldn't  care  'thout  one  thing 

—  jes'  one  thing.     I'd  walk  straight  down  to  hell  fer  hit, 

—  I  reckon  I  hev  done  that,  —  but  I'd  walk  till  I  drapped, 
an*  work  till  I  died  for  hit."  He  stood  still  a  moment, 
and  again  she  essayed  to  move  his  hands,  but  he  only  held 
her  closer. 

"Oh,  hurry,  Frale  !     I'm  afraid.     Oh,  Frale,  don't !" 

"Be  ye  'feared  fer  me,  Cass  ?" 

"You  know  that,  Frale.     Leave  go,  and  hear  to  me." 

"Be  ye  'feared  'nough  to  give  me  your  promise,  Cass  ?*' 

"Take  your  hand  off  me,  Frale." 

"We'll  go  back.  I  'low  they  mount  es  well  take  me  first 
as  last.  I  hain't  no  heart  lef  in  me.  I  don't  care  fer  that 
thar  doctah  man  he'pin'  me,  nohow,"  he  choked. 

"Leave  me  go,  and  I'll  give  you  promise  for  promise, 
Frale.  I  can't  make  out  is  it  sin  or  not ;  but  if  God  can 
forgive  and  love  —  when  you  turn  and  seek  Him  —  the 
Bible  do  say  so,  Frale,  but  —  but  seem  like  you  don't 
repent  your  deed  whilst  you  look  at  me  like  that  way." 
She  paused,  trembling.  "If  you  could  be  sorry  like  you 
ought  to  be,  Frale,  and  turn  your  heart  —  I  could  die  for 
that." 

He  still  held  her,  but  lifted  one  shaking  hand  above  his 
head. 

"Before  God,  I  promise — " 

"What,  Frale?     Say  what  you  promise." 

He  still  held  his  hand  high.  "All  you  ask  of  me,  Cass. 
Tell  me  word  by  word,  an'  I'll  promise  fair." 

"You  will  repent,  Frale  ?" 


58  The  Mountain  Girl 

"Yas." 

"You  will  not  drink?" 

"I  will  not  drink." 

*'You  will  heed  when  your  own  heart  tells  you  the 
right  way  ?" 

'*I  will  heed  when  my  heart  tells  me  the  way :  hit  will 
be  the  way  to  you,  Cass." 

"Oh,  don't  say  it  that  way,  Frale.  Now  say,  *So  help 
me  God,'  and  don't  think  of  me  whilst  you  say  it." 

"Put  your  hand  on  mine,  Cass.  Lift  hit  up  an'  say  with 
me  that  word."  She  placed  her  palm  on  his  uplifted  palm. 
"So  help  me,  God,"  they  said  together.  Then,  with 
streaming  tears,  she  put  her  arms  about  his  neck  and 
gently  drew  his  face  down  to  her  own. 

"I'll  go  back  now,  Frale,  and  you  do  all  I've  said.  Go 
quick.  I'll  write  Bishop  Towahs,  and  he'll  watch  out  for 
you,  and  find  you  work.  Let  Doctah  Thryng  help  you. 
He  sure  is  a  good  man.     Oh,  if  you  only  could  write  !" 

"I'll  larn." 

"You'll  have  a  heap  more  to  learn  than  you  guess.  I've 
been  there,  and  I  know.  Don't  give  up,  Frale,  and  —  and 
stay—" 

"I  hain't  going  to  give  up  with  your  promise  here,  Cass ; 
kiss  me." 

She  did  so,  and  he  slowly  released  her,  looking  back  as 
he  walked  away. 

"Oh,  hurry,  Frale !  Don't  look  back.  It's  a  bad 
omen."  She  turned,  and  without  one  backward  glance 
descended  the  mountain. 


CHAPTER  VI 

IN  WHICH   DAVID  AIDS  FRALE  TO  MAKE  HIS  ESCAPE 

Elated  by  his  talk  with  Cassandra,  Frale  walked 
eagerly  forward,  but  as  he  neared  Thryng's  cabin  he 
moved  more  slowly.  Why  should  he  let  that  doctor  help 
him  ?  He  could  reach  Farington  some  way  —  travelling 
by  night  and  hiding  in  the  daytime.  But  David  was 
watching  for  him  and  strolled  down  to  meet  him. 

"Good  morning.  Your  sister  says  there  is  no  time  to 
lose.  Come  in  here,  and  we'll  see  if  we  can  find  a  way  out 
of  this  trouble." 

Having  learned  not  to  expect  any  response  to  remarks 
not  absolutely  demanding  one,  and  not  wishing  the  silence 
to  dominate,  David  talked  on,  as  he  led  Frale  into  the 
cabin  and  carefully  closed  the  door  behind  them. 

Thryng's  intuition  was  subtle  and  his  nature  intense 
and  strong.  He  had  been  used  to  dealing  with  men,  and 
knew  that  when  he  wished  to,  he  usually  gained  his  point. 
Feeling  the  antagonism  in  Frale's  heart  toward  himself, 
he  determined  to  overcome  it.  Be  it  pride,  jealousy,  or 
what  not,  it  must  give  way. 

He  had  learned  only  that  morning  that  circumlocution 
or  pretence  of  any  sort  would  only  drive  the  youth  further 
into  his  fortress  of  silence,  and  close  his  nature,  a  sealed 
well  of  turbid  feeling,  against  him ;  therefore  he  chose  a 
manner  pleasantly  frank,  taking  much  for  granted,  and 
giving  the  boy  no  chance  to  refuse  his  help,  by  assuming 
it  to  have  been  already  accepted. 

"We  are  about  the  same  size,  I  think  .^^  Yes.  Here 
are  some  things  I  laid  out  for  you.  You  must  look  as 
much  like  me  as  possible,  and  as  unlike  yourself,  you  know. 
Sit  here  and  we'll  see  what  can  be  done  for  your  head.'* 

"You're  right  fair,  an'  I'm  dark." 

"Oh,  that  makes  very  little  difference.  It's  the  general 
appearance  we  must  get  at.  Suppose  I  try  to  trim  your 
hair  a  little  so  that  lock  on  your  forehead  won't  give  you 
away.'* 

59 


60  The  Mountain  Girl 

"I  reckon  I  can  do  it.  Hit's  makin'  you  a  heap  o' 
trouble." 

David  was  pleased  to  note  the  boy's  mood  softening, 
and  helped  him  on. 

"I'm  no  hand  as  a  barber,  but  I'll  try  it  a  little;  it's 
easier  for  me  to  get  at  than  for  you."  He  quickly  and 
deftly  cut  away  the  falling  curl,  and  even  shaved  the 
corners  of  the  forehead  a  bit,  and  clipped  the  eyebrows  to 
give  them  a  different  angle.  "All  this  will  grow  again, 
you  know.  You  only  want  it  to  last  until  the  storm  blows 
over." 

The  youth  surveyed  himself  in  the  mirror  and  smiled, 
but  grimly.     *'I  do  look  a  heap  different." 

"That's  right;  we  want  you  to  look  like  quite  another 
man.  And  now  for  your  chin.  You  can  use  a  razor; 
here  is  warm  water  and  soap.  This  suit  of  clothes  is  such 
as  we  tramp  about  in  at  home,  different  from  anything 
you  see  up  here,  you  know.  I'll  take  my  pipe  and  book 
and  sit  there  on  the  rock  and  keep  an  eye  out,  lest  any  one 
climb  up  here  to  look  around,  and  you  can  have  the  cabin 
all  to  yourself.  You  see  what  to  do ;  make  yourself  look 
as  if  you  came  from  my  part  of  the  world."  Thryng 
glanced  at  his  watch.  "Work  fast,  but  take  time  enough 
to  do  it  well.  Say  half  an  hour, —  will  that  do  .^" 
[    "Yas,  I  reckon." 

Then  David  left  him,  and  the  moments  passed  until  an 
hour  had  slipped  away,  but  still  the  youth  did  not  appear, 
and  he  was  on  the  point  of  calling  out  to  him,  when  he 
saw  the  twisted  form  of  little  Hoyle  scrambling  up  through 
the  underbrush. 

"They're  comin',"  he  panted,  with  wild  and  frightened 
eyes  fixed  on  David's  face.  "I  see  'em  up  the  road,  an' 
I  heered  'em  say  they  was  goin'  to  hunt  'round  the  house 
good,  an'  then  s'arch  the  cabin  ovah  Hanging  Rock." 
The  poor  child  burst  into  tears.  "Do  you  'low  they'll 
shoot  Frale,  suh?" 

"They'd  not  reached  the  house  when  you  saw  them.'*" 

"They'll  be  thar  by  now,  suh,"  sobbed  the  boy. 

"Then  run  and  hide  yourself.  Crawl  under  the  rock 
—  into  the  smallest  hole  you  can.  They  mustn't  see  that 
you  have  been  here,  and  don't  be  frightened,  little  man. 
We'll  look  after  Frale." 


David  aids  Frale  to  Escape  61 

The  child  disappeared  like  a  squirrel  in  a  hole,  and 
Thryng  went  to  the  cabin  door  and  knocked  imperatively. 
It  was  opened  instantly,  and  Frale  stood  transformed, 
his  old,  soiled  garments  lying  in  a  heap  at  his  side  as  if  he 
had  crept  out  of  his  chrysalis.  A  full  half  hour  he  had 
been  lingering,  abashed  at  himself  and  dreading  to  appear. 
The  slight  growth  of  adolescence  was  gone  from  lip  and 
chin,  and  Thryng  was  amazed  and  satisfied. 

"Good,"  he  cried.     "You've  done  well." 

The  youth  smiled  shamefacedly,  yet  held  his  head  high. 
With  the  heavy  golf  stockings,  knee  breeches,  and  belted 
jacket,  even  to  himself  he  seemed  another  man,  and  an 
older  man  he  looked  by  five  years. 

"Now  keep  your  nerve,  and  square  your  shoulders  and 
face  the  world  with  a  straight  look  in  the  eye.  You've 
thrown  off  the  old  man  with  these."  David  touched  the 
heap  of  clothing  on  the  floor  with  his  foot.  "Hoyle  is 
here.  He  says  the  men  are  on  their  way  here  and  have 
stopped  at  the  house." 

Instead  of  turning  pale  as  Thryng  had  expected,  a  dark 
flush  came  into  Frale's  face,  and  his  hand  clinched.  It  was 
the  ferocity  of  fear,  and  not  the  deadliness  of  it,  which 
seized  him  with  a  sort  of  terrible  anger,  that  David  felt 
through  his  silence. 

"Don't  lose  control  of  yourself,  boy,"  he  said,  placing 
his  hand  gently  on  his  shoulder  and  making  his  touch  felt 
by  the  intimate  closing  of  his  slender  fingers  upon  the 
firmly  rounded,   lean  muscles  beneath  them. 

"Follow  my  directions,  and  be  quick.  Put  your  own 
clothes  in  this  bag."  He  hastily  tossed  a  few  things  out  of 
his  pigskin  valise.  "  Cram  them  in ;  that's  right.  Don't 
leave  a  trace  of  yourself  here  for  them  to  find.  Pull  this 
cap  over  your  eyes,  and  walk  straight  down  that  path, 
and  pass  them  by  as  if  they  were  nothing  to  you.  If 
they  speak  to  you,  of  course  nod  to  them  and  pass  on. 
But  if  they  ask  you  a  question,  say  politely,  *  Beg  pardon  ? ' 
just  like  that,  as  though  you  did  not  understand  —  and 
—  wait.  Don't  hurry  away  from  them  as  if  you  were 
afraid  of  them.  They  won't  recognize  you  unless  you 
give  yourself  away  by  your  manner.  See  ?  Now  say  it 
oyer  after  me.  Good  !  Take  these  cigars."  He  placed 
his  own  case  in  the  boy's  vest  pocket. 


62  The  Mountain  Girl 

"Better  leave  'em  free,  suh.  I  don't  like  to  take  all 
your  things  this-a-way."  He  handed  back  the  case,  and 
put  them  loose  in  his  pocket. 

"Very  well.  If  you  smoke,  just  light  this  and  walk  on, 
and  if  they  ask  you  anything  about  yourself,  if  you  have 
seen  a  chap  of  the  sort,  understand,  offer  them  each  a 
cigar,  and  tell  them  no.  Don't  say  *I  reckon  not,'  for 
that  will  give  you  away,  and  don't  lift  your  cap,  or  they 
will  see  how  roughly  your  hair  is  cut.  Touch  it  as  if  you 
were  going  to  lift  it,  only  —  so.  I  would  take  care  not  to 
arrive  at  the  house  while  they  are  there  ;  it  will  be  easier  for 
you  to  meet  them  on  the  path.     It  will  be  the  sooner  over." 

Thryng  held  out  his  hand,  and  Frale  took  it  awk- 
wardly, then  turned  away,  swallowing  the  thanks  he  did 
not  know  how  to  utter.  For  the  time  being,  David  had 
conquered.  ' 

The  lad  took  a  few  steps  and  then  turned  back.  "I'd 
like  to  thank  you,  suh,  an'  I'd  like  to  pay  fer  these  here  — 
I  'low  to  get  work  an'  send  the  money  fer  'em." 

"Don't  be  troubled  about  that;  we'll  see  later.  Only 
remember  one  thing.  I  don't  know  what  you've  done, 
nor  why  you  must  run  away  like  this  —  I  haven't  asked. 
I  may  be  breaking  the  laws  of  the  land  as  much  as  you  in 
helping  you  off.  I  am  doing  it  because,  until  I  know  of 
some  downright  evil  in  you,  I'm  bound  to  help  you,  and 
the  best  way  to  repay  me  will  be  for  you  to  —  you  know  — 
do  right." 

"Are  you  doin'  this  fer  her.?"  He  looked  off  at  the 
hills  as  he  spoke,  and  not  at  the  doctor. 

"Yes,  for  her  and  for  you.  Don't  linger  now,  and  don't 
forget  my  directions." 

The  youth  turned  on  the  doctor  a  quick  look.  Thryng 
could  not  determine,  as  he  thought  it  over  afterward,  if 
there  was  in  it  a  trace  of  malevolence.  It  was  like  a  flash 
of  steel  between  them,  even  as  they  smiled  and  again  bade 
each  other  good-by. 

For  a  time  all  was  silent  around  Hanging  Rock.  Thryng 
sat  reading  and  pondering,  expecting  each  moment  to 
hear  voices  from  the  direction  Frale  had  taken.  He 
could  not  help  smiling  as  he  thought  over  his  attempt  to 
make  this  mountain  boy  into  the  typical  English  tourist, 
and  how  unique  an  imitation  was  the  result. 


David  aids  Frale  to  Escape  63 

He  called  out  to  comfort  Hoyle's  fearful  little  heart : 
"Your  brother's  all  safe  now.  Come  out  here  until  we 
hear  men's  voices." 

"I  better  stay  whar  I  be,  I  reckon.  They  won't  talk 
none  when  they  get  nigh  hyar." 

'*Are  you  comfortable  down  there  .f^" 

"Yas,  suh." 

Hoyle  was  right.  The  two  men  detailed  for  this  climb 
walked  in  silence,  to  give  no  warning  of  their  approach, 
until  they  appeared  in  the  rear  of  the  cabin,  and  entered 
the  shed  where  Frale's  horse  was  stabled.  Sure  were 
they  then  that  its  owner  was  trapped  at  last. 

They  were  greatly  surprised  at  finding  the  premises 
occupied.  David  continued  his  reading,  unconcerned 
until  addressed. 

"Good  evenin*,  suh." 

He  greeted  them  genially  and  invited  them  into  his 
cabin,  determined  to  treat  them  with  as  royal  hospitality 
as  was  in  his  power.  To  offer  them  tea  was  hardly  the 
thing,  he  reasoned,  so  he  stirred  up  the  fire,  while  descant- 
ing on  the  beauty  of  the  location  and  the  health-giving 
quality  of  the  air,  and  when  his  kettle  was  boiling,  he 
brought  out  from  his  limited  stores  whiskey,  lemons,  and 
sugar,  and  proceeded  to  brew  them  so  fine  a  quality  of 
English  toddy  as  to  warm  the  cockles  of  their  hearts. 

Questioning  them  on  his  own  account,  he  learned  how 
best  to  get  his  supplies  brought  up  the  mountains,  and 
many  things  about  the  region  interesting  to  him.  At 
last  one  of  them  ventured  a  remark  about  the  horse  and 
how  he  came  by  him,  at  which  he  explained  very  frankly 
that  the  widow  down  below  had  allowed  him  the  use  of  the 
animal  for  his  keep  until  her  son  returned. 

They  "  'lowed  he  wa'n't  comin'  back  to  these  parts  very 
soon,"  and  David  expressed  satisfaction.  His  evident 
ignorance  of  mountain  affairs  convinced  them  that  noth- 
ing was  to  be  gained  from  him,  and  they  asked  no  direct 
questions,  and  finally  took  their  departure,  with  a  high 
opinion  of  their  host,  and  quite  content. 

Then  David  called  his  little  accomplice  from  his  hiding- 
place,  took  him  into  his  cabin,  and  taught  him  to  drink 
tea  with  milk  and  sugar  in  it,  gave  him  crisp  biscuits  from 
his  small  remainder  in  store,  and,  still  further  to  comfort 


64  The  Mountain  Girl 

his  heart,  searched  out  a  card  on  which  was  a  picture  of 
an  ocean  Hner  on  an  open  sea,  with  flags  flying,  great  rolls 
of  vapor  and  smoke  trailing  across  the  sky,  with  white- 
capped  waves  beneath  and  white  clouds  above.  The 
boy's  eyes  shone  with  delight.  He  twisted  himself  about 
to  look  up  in  Thryng's  face  as  he  questioned  him  concern- 
ing it,  and  almost  forgot  Frale  in  his  happiness,  as  he 
trudged  home  hugging  the  precious  card  to  his  bosom. 

Contentedly  Thryng  proceeded  to  set  his  abode  in  order 
after  the  disarray  of  the  morning,  undisturbed  by  any 
question  as  to  the  equity  of  his  deed.  His  mind  was  in  a 
state  of  rebellion  against  the  usual  workings  of  the  criminal 
courts,  and,  biassed  by  his  observation  of  the  youth,  he 
felt  that  his  act  might  lead  as  surely  toward  absolute 
justice,  perhaps  more  surely,  than  the  opposite  course 
would  have  done. 

Erelong  he  found  a  few  tools  carefully  packed  away,  as 
was  the  habit  of  his  old  friend,  and  the  labor  of  preparing 
his  canvas  room  began.  But  first  a  ladder  hanging  under 
the  eaves  of  the  cabin  must  be  repaired,  and  long  before 
the  slant  rays  of  the  setting  sun  fell  across  his  hilltop,  he 
found  himself,  too  weary  to  descend  to  the  Fall  Place,  even 
with  the  aid  of  his  horse.  With  a  measure  of  discourage- 
ment at  his  undeniable  weakness,  he  led  the  animal  to 
water  where  a  spring  bubbled  sweet  and  clear  in  an  em- 
bowered hollow  quite  near  his  cabin,  then  stretched  him- 
self on  the  couch  before  the  fire,  with  no  other  light  than 
its  cheerful  blaze,  too  exhausted  for  his  book  and  disin- 
clined even  to  prepare  his  supper. 

After  a  time,  David's  weariness  gave  place  to  a  pleasant 
drowsiness,  and  he  rose,  arranged  his  bed,  and  replenished  the 
fire,  drank  a  little  hot  milk,  and  dropped  into  a  wholesome 
slumber  as  dreamless  and  sweet  as  that  of  a  tired  child. 

Such  a  sense  of  peace  and  retirement  closed  around  him 
there  alone  on  his  mountain,  that  he  slept  with  his  cabin 
door  open  to  the  sweet  air,  crisp  and  cold,  lulled  by  the 
murmuring  of  the  swaying  pine  tops  without,  and  the  crack- 
ling and  crumbling  of  burning  logs  within.  Rolled  in  his 
warm  Scotch  rug,  he  did  not  feel  the  chill  that  came  as 
his  fire  burned  lower,  but  slept  until  daybreak,  when  the 
clear  note  of  a  Carolina  wren,  thrice  repeated  close  to  his 
open  door,  sounded  his  reveille. 


David  aids  Frale  to  Escape  65 

Deeply  inhaling  the  cold  air,  he  lay  and  mused  over  the 
events  of  the  previous  day.  How  quicklj^  and  naturally 
he  had  been  drawn  into  the  interests  of  his  neighbors 
below  him,  and  had  absorbed  the  peculiar  atmosphere  of 
their  isolation,  making  a  place  for  himself,  shutting  out 
almost  as  if  they  had  never  existed  the  harassments  and 
questionings  of  his  previous  life.  Was  it  a  buoyancy  he 
had  received  from  his  mountain  height  and  the  morning 
air  ?  Whatever  the  cause,  he  seemed  to  have  settled  with 
them  all,  and  arrived  at  last  where  his  spirit  needed  but 
to  rest  open  and  receptive  before  its  Creator  to  be  swept 
clear  of  the  dross  of  the  world's  estimates  of  values,  and 
exalted  with  aspiration. 

Every  long  breath  he  drew  seemed  to  make  his  mental 
vision  clearer.  God  and  his  own  soul  —  was  that  all  ? 
Not  quite.  God  and  the  souls  of  men  and  of  women  — 
of  all  who  came  within  his  environment  —  a  world  made 
beautiful,  made  sweet  and  health-giving  for  these  —  and 
with  them  to  know  God,  to  feel  Him  near.  So  Christ 
came  to  be  close  to  humanity. 

A  mist  of  scepticism  that  had  hung  over  him  and  clouded 
the  later  years  of  his  young  manhood  suddenly  rolled  away, 
dispelled  by  the  splendor  of  this  triumphant  thought, 
even  as  the  rays  of  the  rising  sun  came  at  the  same 
moment  to  dispel  the  earth  mists  and  flood  the  hills  with 
light.  Light;  that  was  it!  "In  Him  is  no  darkness  at 
all." 

Joyously  he  set  himself  to  the  preparation  for  the  day. 
The  true  meaning  of  life  was  revealed  to  him.  The  dis- 
couragement of  the  evening  before  was  gone.  Yet  now 
should  he  sit  down  in  ecstatic  dreaming  ^  It  must  be 
joy  in  hfe  —  movement  —  in  whatever  was  to  be  done, 
whether  in  satisfying  a  wholesome  hunger,  in  creating 
warmth  for  his  body,  or  in  conquering  the  seeds  of  decay 
and  disease  therein,  and  keeping  it  strong  and  full  of  re- 
active power  for  his  soul's  sake. 

It  was  a  revelation  to  him  of  the  eternal  God,  wonder- 
working and  all-pervading.  Now  no  longer  with  a  haunt- 
ing sense  of  fear  would  he  search  and  learn,  but  with  a 
glad  perception  of  the  beautiful  orderliness  of  the  uni- 
verse, so  planned  and  arranged  for  the  souls  of  men  when 
only  they  should  learn  how  to  use  their  own  lives,  and 


66  The  Mountain  Girl 

attune  themselves  to  give  forth  music  to  the  touch  of 
the  God  of  Love. 

A  cold  bath,  the  pure  air,  and  his  abstemiousness  of  the 
previous  evening  gave  him  a  compelHng  hunger,  and  it 
was  with  satisfaction  he  discovered  so  large  a  portion  of 
his  dinner  of  yesterday  remaining  to  be  warmed  for  his 
morning  meal.  What  he  should  do  later,  when  dinner-time 
arrived,  he  knew  not,  and  he  laughed  to  think  how  he  was 
living  from  hour  to  hour,  content  as  the  small  wren  fluting 
beside  his  door  his  care-free  note.  Ah,  yes  !  "God's  in 
His  heaven,  all's  right  with  the  world." 

The  wren's  note  reminded  him  of  a  slender  box  which 
always  accompanied  his  wanderings,  and  which  had  come 
to  light  rolled  in  the  jacket  which  he  had  given  Frale  as 
part  of  his  disguise.  He  opened  it  and  took  therefrom 
the  joints  of  a  silver  flute.   How  long  it  had  lain  untouched ! 

He  fitted  the  parts  and  strolled  out  to  the  rock,  and  there, 
as  he  gazed  at  the  shifting,  subtle  beauty  spread  all  before 
him  and  around  him,  he  lifted  the  wandlike  instrument 
to  his  lips  and  began  to  play.  At  first  he  only  imitated 
the  wren,  a  few  short  notes  joyously  uttered ;  then,  as 
the  springs  of  his  own  happiness  welled  up  within  him,  he 
poured  forth  a  tumultuous  flood  of  trills  —  a  dancing 
staccato  of  mounting  notes,  shifting  and  falling,  rising, 
floating  away,  and  then  returning  in  silvery  echoes, 
bringing  their  own  gladness  with  them. 

The  psean  of  praise  ended,  the  work  of  the  day  began, 
and  he  set  himself  with  all  the  nervous  energy  of  his  nature 
to  the  finishing  of  his  canvas  room.  Again,  ere  the  com- 
pletion of  the  task,  he  found  he  had  been  expending  his 
strength  too  lavishly,  but  this  time  he  accepted  his  weari- 
ness more  philosophically,  glad  if  only  he  might  labor  and 
rest  as  the  need  came. 

Nearly  the  whole  of  the  glorious  day  was  still  left  him. 
In  moving  his  couch  nearer  the  door,  he  found  his  efforts 
impeded  by  some  heavy  object  underneath  it,  and  dis- 
covered, to  his  surprise  and  almost  dismay,  the  identical 
pigskin  valise  which  Frale  had  taken  away  with  him  the 
day  before.  How  came  it  there  ?  No  one,  he  was  certain, 
had  been  near  his  cabin  since  Hoyle  had  trotted  home 
yesterday,  hugging  his  picture  to  his  breast. 

David  drew  it  out  into  the  light  and  opened  it.     There 


David  aids  Frale  to  Escape  67 

on  the  top  lay  the  cigars  he  had  placed  in  the  youth's 
pocket,  and  there  also  every  article  of  wearing  apparel  he 
had  seen  disappear  down  the  laurel-grown  path  on  Frale's 
lithe  body  twelve  hours  or  more  ago.  He  cast  the  articles 
out  upon  the  floor  and  turned  them  over  wonderingly, 
then  shoved  them  aside  and  lay  down  for  his  quiet  siesta. 
He  would  learn  from  Cassandra  the  meaning  of  this.  He 
hoped  the  young  man  had  got  off  safely,  yet  the  fact  of 
finding  his  kindly  efforts  thus  thrust  back  upon  him  dis- 
turbed him.  Why  had  it  been  done  ?  As  he  pondered 
thereon,  he  saw  again  the  steel-blue  flash  in  the  young 
man's  eyes  as  he  turned  away,  and  resolved  to  ask  no 
questions,  even  of  Cassandra. 


CHAPTER   VII 

IN  WHICH  FRALE  GOES  DOWN  TO  FABINGTON  IN  HIS  OWN 

WAY 

Frale  felt  himself  exalted  by  the  oath  he  had  sworn 
to  Cassandra,  as  if  those  words  had  lifted  the  burden  from 
^  his  heart,  and  taken  away  the  stain.  As  he  walked  away 
in  his  disguise,  it  seemed  to  him  that  he  had  acted  under 
an  irresistible  spell  cast  upon  him  by  this  Englishman, 
who  was  to  bide  so  near  Cassandra  —  to  be  seen  by  her 
every  day  —  to  be  admired  by  her,  while  he,  who  had  the 
first  right,  must  hide  himself  away  from  her,  shielding 
himself  in  that  man's  clothes.  Fine  as  they  seemed  to 
him,  they  only  abashed  him  and  filled  him  with  a  sense 
of  obligation  to  a  man  he  dreaded. 

Like  a  child,  realizing  his  danger  only  when  it  was  close 
upon  him,  his  old  recklessness  returned,  and  he  moved 
down  the  path  with  his  head  held  high,  looking  neither  to 
the  right  nor  to  the  left,  planning  how  he  might  be  rid  of 
these  clothes  and  evade  his  pursuers  unaided.  The  men, 
climbing  toward  him  as  he  descended,  hearing  his  foot- 
steps above  them,  parted  and  stood  watching,  only  half 
screened  by  the  thick-leaved  shrubs,  not  ten  feet  from 
him  on  either  side ;  but  so  elated  was  he,  and  eager  in 
his  plans,  that  he  passed  them  by,  unseeing,  and  thus 
Thryng's  efforts  saved  him  in  spite  of  himself;  for  so 
amazed  were  they  at  the  presence  of  such  a  traveller  in 
such  a  place  that  they  allowed  him  to  pass  unchallenged 
until  he  was  too  far  below  them  to  make  speech  possible. 
Later,  when  they  found  David  seated  on  his  rock,  they 
assumed  the  young  man  to  be  a  friend,  and  thought  no 
further  of  it. 

Frale  soon  left  the  path  and  followed  the  stream  to 
the  head  of  the  fall,  where  he  lingered,  tormented  by  his 
own  thoughts  and  filled  with  conflicting  emotions,  in  sight 
of  his  home. 

To  go  down  to  the  settlement  and  see  the  world  had  its 
allurements,  but  to  go  in  this  way,  never  to  return,  never 

68 


Frale  goes  to  Farington  69 

to  feel  again  the  excitement  of  his  mountain  life,  evading 
the  law  and  conquering  its  harassments,  was  bitter.  It 
had  been  his  joy  and  delight  in  life  to  feel  himself  master- 
fully triumphant  over  those  set  to  take  him,  too  cunning 
to  be  found,  too  daring  and  strong  to  be  overcome,  to 
take  desperate  chances  and  win  out;  all  these  he  con- 
sidered his  right  and  part  of  the  game  of  life.  But  to 
slink  away  like  a  hunted  fox  followed  by  the  dogs  of  the 
law  because,  in  a  blind  frenzy,  he  had  slain  his  own  friend  ! 
What  if  he  had  promised  to  repent;  there  was  the  law 
after  him  still ! 

If  only  his  fate  were  a  tangible  thing,  to  be  grappled  with! 
To  meet  a  foe  and  fight  hand  to  hand  to  the  death  was  not 
so  hard  as  to  yield  himself  to  the  inevitable.  Sullenly  he 
sat  with  his  head  in  his  hands,  and  life  seemed  to  stretch 
before  him,  leading  to  a  black  chasm.  But  one  ray  of 
light  was  there  to  follow  —  "Cass,  Cass."  If  only  he 
would  accept  the  help  offered  him  and  go  to  the  station, 
take  his  seat  in  the  train,  and  find  himself  in  Farington, 
while  still  his  pursuers  were  scouring  the  mountains  for 
him,  he  might  —  he  might  win  out.  Moodily  and  stub- 
bornly he  resisted  the  thought. 

At  last,  screened  by  the  darkness,  he  turned  out  his 
soiled  and  torn  garments,  and  divesting  himself  of  every 
article  Thryng  had  given  him,  he  placed  them  carefully 
in  the  Valise.  Then,  relieved  of  one  humiliation,  he  set 
himself  again  on  the  path  toward  Hanging  Rock  cabin. 

As  he  passed  the  great  holly  tree  where  Cassandra  had 
sat  beside  him,  he  placed  his  hand  on  the  stone  and  paused. 
His  heart  leaned  toward  her.  He  wanted  her.  Should 
he  go  down  to  her  now  and  refuse  to  leave  her  ?  But  no. 
He  had  promised.  Something  warm  splashed  down  upon 
his  hand  as  he  bent  over  the  rock.  He  sprang  up,  ashamed 
to  weep,  and,  seizing  the  doctor's  valise,  plunged  on 
through  the  shadows  up  the  steep  ascent. 

He  had  no  definite  idea  of  how  he  would  explain  his  act, 
for  he  did  not  comprehend  his  own  motives.  It  was  only 
a  wordless  repugnance  that  possessed  him,  vague  and 
sullen,  against  this  man's  offered  friendship ;  and  his  relief 
was  great  when  he  found  David  asleep  before  his  open 
door. 

Stealthily  he  entered  and  placed  his  burden  beneath 


70  The  Mountain  Girl 

the  couch,  gazed  a  moment  at  the  sleeping  face  whereon 
the  firelight  still  played,  and  softly  crept  away.  Cas- 
sandra should  know  that  she  had  no  need  to  thank  the 
Englishman  for  his  freedom. 

Then  came  the  weary  tramp  down  the  mountain, 
skulking  and  hiding  by  day,  and  struggling  on  again  by 
night  —  taking  by-paths  and  unused  trails  —  finding  his 
uncertain  way  by  moonlight  and  starlight  —  barked  at 
by  dogs,  and  followed  by  hounds  baying  loudly  whenever 
he  came  near  a  human  habitation  —  wading  icy  streams 
and  plunging  through  gorges  to  avoid  cabins  or  settle- 
ments —  keeping  life  in  him  by  gnawing  raw  turnips  which 
had  been  left  in  the  fields  ungathered,  until  at  last,  pallid, 
weary,  dirty,  and  utterly  forlorn,  he  found  himself,  in 
the  half-light  of  the  dawn  of  the  fourth  day,  near  Faring- 
ton.  Shivering  with  cold,  he  stole  along  the  village  street 
and  hid  himself  in  the  bishop's  grounds  until  he  should 
see  some  one  astir  in  the  house. 

The  bishop  had  sat  late  the  night  before,  half  expecting 
him,  for  he  had  received  Cassandra's  letter,  also  one  from 
Thryng.  Neither  letter  threw  light  on  Frale's  deed, 
although  Cassandra's  gave  him  to  understand  that  some- 
thing more  serious  than  illicit  distilling  had  necessitated 
his  flight.  David's  was  a  joyous  letter,  craving  his  com- 
panionship whenever  his  affairs  might  bring  him  near, 
but  expressing  the  greatest  contentment. 

When  Black  Carrie  went  out  to  unlock  the  chicken 
house  door  and  fetch  wood  for  her  morning  fire,  she 
screamed  with  fright  as  the  young  man  in  his  wretched 
plight  stepped  before  her. 

"G'long,  yo  —  pore  white  trash!"  she  cried. 

"I'm  no  poor  white  trash,"  he  murmured.  "Be  Bishop 
Towah  in  the  house  ?*' 

"Co'se  he  in  de  haouse.  Whar  yo  s'poses  he  be  dis 
time  de  mawnin'  ?"  She  made  with  all  haste  toward  her 
kitchen,  bearing  her  armful  of  wood,  muttering  as  she  went. 

"I  reckon  I'll  set  hyar  ontwell  he  kin  see  me,"  he  said, 
dropping  to  the  doorstep  in  sheer  exhaustion.  And  there 
he  was  allowed  to  sit  while  she  prepared  breakfast  in  her 
own  leisurely  way,  having  no  intention  of  disturbing  her 
"white  folkses  fer  no  sech  trash." 

The  odor  of  coffee  and  hot  cakes  was  maddening  to  the 


JOot.scwX- 


Skulking  a)id  Jiidiiig  by  day,  a)id  struggling  on  again 
by  night.     Page  70. 


Frale  goes  to  Farington  71 

star\dng  boy,  as  he  watched  her  through  the  open  door, 
yet  he  passively  sat,  withdrawn  into  himself,  seeking  in 
no  way  either  to  secure  a  portion  of  the  food  or  to  make 
himself  knowTi.  After  a  time,  he  heard  faintly  voices 
beyond  the  kitchen,  and  knew  the  family  must  be  there 
at  breakfast,  but  still  he  sat,  saying  nothing. 

At  last  the  door  of  the  inner  room  was  burst  open,  and 
a  child  ran  out,  demanding  scraps  for  her  puppy. 

"I  may  !  I  may,  too,  feed  him  in  the  dining  room. 
Mamma  says  I  may,  after  we're  through." 

"Go  off,  honey  chile,  mussin'  de  flo'  like  dat-a-way  fer 
me  to  clean  up  agin.  Naw,  honey.  Go  out  on  de  stoop 
wif  yer  fool  houn'  dog."  And  the  tiny,  fair  girl  with  her 
plate  of  scraps  and  her  small  black  dog  leaping  and  danc- 
ing at  her  heels,  tumbled  themselves  out  where  Frale 
sat. 

Scattering  her  crusts  as  she  ran,  she  darted  back, 
calling:  "Papa,  papa!  A  man's  come.  He's  here." 
The  small  dog  further  emphasized  the  fact  by  barking 
fiercely  at  the  intruder,  albeit  from  a  safe  distance. 

"Yas,"  said  Carrie,  as  the  bishop  came  out,  led  by  his 
little  daughter,  "he  b'en  hyar  sence  long  fo'  sun-up." 

"Why  didn't  you  call  me.^"  he  said  sternly. 

"Sho  —  how  I  know  anybody  wan'  see  yo,  hangin' 
'roun'  de  back  do'  ^  He  ain'  say  nuthin',  jes'  set  dar." 
She  continued  muttering  her  crusty  dislike  of  tramps, 
as  the  bishop  led  his  caller  through  her  kitchen  and  sent 
his  little  daughter  to  look  after  her  puppy. 

He  took  Frale  into  his  private  study,  and  presently 
returned  and  himself  carried  him  food,  placing  it  before 
him  on  a  small  table  where  many  a  hungry  caller  had 
been  fed  before.  Then  he  occupied  himself  at  his  desk 
while  he  quietly  observed  the  boy.  He  saw  that  the  youth 
was  too  worn  and  weak  to  be  dealt  with  rationally  at  first, 
and  he  felt  it  difficult  to  affix  the  thought  of  a  desperate 
crime  upon  one  so  gentle  of  mien  and  innocent  of  face; 
but  he  knew  his  people  well,  and  what  masterful  passions 
often  slept  beneath  a  mild  and  harmless  exterior. 

Nor  was  it  the  first  time  he  had  been  called  upon  to 
adjust  a  conflict  between  his  own  conscience  and  the  law. 
Often  in  his  office  of  priest  he  had  been  the  recipient  of 
confidences  which  no  human  pressure  of  law  could  ever 


72  The  Mountain  Girl 

wrest  from  him.  So  now  he  proceeded  to  draw  from 
Frale  his  full  and  free  confession. 

Very  carefully  and  lovingly  he  trespassed  in  the  secret 
chambers  of  this  troubled  soul,  until  at  last  the  boy  laid 
bare  his  heart. 

He  told  of  the  cause  of  his  anger  and  his  drunken  quar- 
rel, of  his  evasion  of  his  pursuers  and  his  vow  with  Cas- 
sandra before  God,  of  his  rejection  of  Doctor  Thryng's 
help  and  his  flight  by  night,  of  his  suffering  and  hunger. 
All  was  told  without  fervor,  —  a  simple  passive  narra- 
tion of  events.  No  one  could  believe,  while  listening  to 
him,  that  storms  of  passion  and  hatred  and  fear  had  torn 
him,  or  the  overwhelming  longing  he  had  suffered  at  the 
thought  of  Cassandra. 

But  when  the  bishop  touched  on  the  subject  of  repent- 
ance, the  hidden  force  was  revealed.  It  was  as  if  the 
tormenting  spirit  within  him  had  cried  out  loudly,  instead 
of  the  low,  monotonous  tone  in  which  he  said :  — 

"Yas,  I  kin  repent  now  he's  dade,  but  ef  he  war 
livin'  an'  riled  me  agin  that-a-way  like  he  done  —  I 
reckon  —  I  reckon  God  don't  want  no  repentin'  Hke  I 
repents." 

It  was  steel  against  flint,  the  spark  in  the  narrow  blue 
line  of  his  eyes  as  he  said  the  words,  and  the  bishop  under- 
stood. 

But  what  to  do  with  this  man  of  the  mountains  —  this 
force  of  nature  in  the  wild;  how  guard  him  from  a  far 
more  pernicious  element  in  the  civilized  town  life  than  any 
he  would  find  in  his  rugged  solitudes  ? 

And  Cassandra  !  The  bishop  bowed  his  head  and  sat 
with  the  tips  of  his  fingers  pressed  together.  The  thought 
of  Cassandra  weighed  heavily  upon  him.  She  had  given 
her  promise,  with  the  devotion  of  her  kind,  to  save ;  had 
truly  offered  herself  a  living  sacrifice.  All  hopes  for  her 
growth  into  the  gracious  womanhood,  her  inheritance  im- 
pelled her  toward,  —  her  sweet  ambitions  for  study,  gone  to 
the  winds  —  scattered  like  the  fragrant  wild  rose  petals 
on  her  own  hillside  —  doomed  by  that  promise  to  live  as 
her  mother  had  lived,  and  like  other  women  of  her  kin,  to 
age  before  her  time  with  the  bearing  of  children  in  the  midst 
of  toil  too  heavy  for  her  —  dispirited  by  privation  and  the 
sorrow  of  relinquished  hopes.     Oh,  well  the  bishop  knew ! 


Frale  goes  to  Farington  73 

He  dreaded  most  to  see  the  beautiful  light  of  aspiration 
die  out  of  her  eyes,  and  her  spirit  grow  sordid  in  the  life 
to  which  this  untamed  savage  would  inevitably  bring  her. 
"What  a  waste  !" 

And  again  he  repeated  the  words,  "What  a  waste!" 
The  youth  looked  up,  thinking  himself  addressed,  but  the 
bishop  saw  only  the  girl.  It  was  as  if  she  rose  and  stood 
there,  dominant  in  the  sweet  power  of  her  girlish  self- 
sacrifice,  appealing  to  him  to  help  save  this  soul.  Some- 
how, at  the  moment,  he  failed  to  appreciate  the  beauty 
of  such  giving.  Almost  it  seemed  to  him  a  pity  Frale 
had  thus  far  succeeded  in  evading  his  pursuers.  It  would 
have  saved  her  in  spite  of  herself  had  he  been  taken. 

But  now  the  situation  was  forced  upon  the  bishop, 
either  to  give  him  up,  which  seemed  an  arbitrary  taking 
into  his  own  hands  of  power  which  belonged  only  to  the 
Almighty,  or  to  shield  him  as  best  he  might,  giving  heed 
to  the  thought  that  even  if  in  his  eyes  the  value  of  the  girl 
was  immeasurably  the  greater,  yet  the  youth  also  was 
valued,  or  why  was  he  here  ? 

He  lifted  his  head  and  saw  Frale's  eyes  fixed  upon  him 
sadly  —  almost  as  if  he  knew  the  bishop's  thoughts. 
Yes,  here  was  a  soul  worth  while.  Plainly  there  was  but 
one  course  to  pursue,  and  but  one  thread  left  to  hold  the 
young  man  to  steadfast  purpose.  Using  that  thread,  he 
would  try.  If  he  could  be  made  to  sacrifice  for  Cassandra 
some  of  his  physical  joy  of  life,  seeking  to  give  more  than 
to  appropriate  to  himself  for  his  own  satisfaction  —  if 
he  could  teach  him  the  value  of  what  she  had  done  — 
could  he  rise  to  such  a  height,  and  learn  self-control  ? 

The  argument  for  repentance  having  come  back  to  him 
void,  the  bishop  began  again.  "You  tell  me  Cassandra 
has  given  you  her  promise  '^  What  are  you^  going  to  do 
about  it  .'^  " 

"Hit's  'twixt  her  an'  me,"  said  the  youth  proudly. 

"No,"  thundered  the  bishop,  all  the  man  in  him  roused 
to  beat  into  this  crude,  triumphant  animal  some  sense  of 
what  Cassandra  had  really  done.  "No.  It's  betwixt  you 
and  the  God  who  made  you.  You  have  to  answer  to  God 
for  what  you  do."  He  towered  above  him,  and  bending 
down,  looked  into  Frale's  eyes  until  the  boy  cowered  and 
looked  down,  with  lowered  head,  and  there  was  silence. 


74  The  Mountain  Girl 

Then  the  bishop  straightened  himself  and  began  pacing 
the  room.  At  last  he  came  to  a  stand  and  spoke  quietly. 
"You  have  Cassandra's  promise ;  what  are  you  going  to  do 
about  it  ?" 

Frale  did  not  move  or  speak,  and  the  bishop  felt  baflSed. 
What  was  going  on  under  that  passive  mask  he  dared  not 
think.  To  talk  seemed  futile,  like  hammering  upon  a 
flint  wall ;  but  hammer  he  must,  and  again  he  tried. 

"You  have  taken  a  man's  life;  do  you  know  what  that 
means  ^  " 

"Hangin',  I  reckon." 

"  If  it  were  only  to  hang,  boy,  it  might  be  better  for  Cas- 
sandra. Think  about  it.  If  I  help  you,  and  shield  you 
here,  what  are  you  going  to  do  ^  What  do  you  care  most 
for  in  all  this  world  ^  You  who  can  kill  a  man  and  then  not 
repent." 

"He  hadn't  ought  to  have  riled  me  Hke  he  done;  I  — 
keer  fer  her." 

"  More  than  for  Frale  Farwell .?  " 

The  boy  looked  vaguely  before  him.  "I  reckon,"  was 
all  he  said. 

Again  the  bishop  paced  the  floor,  and  waited. 

"I  hain't  afeared  to  work  —  right  hard." 

"  Good ;  what  kind  of  work  can  you  doV  Frale  flushed 
a  dark  red  and  was  silent.  "Yes,  I  know  you  can  make 
corn  whiskey,  but  that  is  the  devil's  work.  You're  not 
to  work  for  him  any  more." 

Again  silence.  At  last,  in  a  low  voice,  he  ventured : 
"I'll  do  any  kind  o'  work  you-all  gin'  me  to  do  —  ef  —  ef 
onlv  the  officers  will  leave  me  be  —  an'  I  tol'  Cass  I'd  larn 
writin'." 

"Good,  very  good.     Can  you  drive  a  horse .^    Yes,  of 


course." 


Frale's  eyes  shone.     "  I  reckon." 

The  bishop  grew  more  hopeful.  The  holy  greed  for 
souls  fell  upon  him.  The  young  man  must  be  guarded  and 
watched ;  he  must  be  washed  and  clothed,  as  well  as  fed, 
and  right  here  the  little  wife  must  be  consulted.  He  went 
out,  leaving  the  youth  to  himself,  and  sought  his  brown- 
eyed,  sweet-faced  little  wisp  of  a  woman,  where  she  sat 
writing  his  most  pressing  business  letters  for  him. 

"Dearest,  may  I  interrupt  you?" 


Frale  goes  to  Farington  75 

"In  a  minute,  James;  in  a  minute.  I'll  just  address 
these." 

He  dropped  into  a  deep  chair  and  waited,  with  troubled 
eyes  regarding  her.  "  There  ! "  She  rubbed  vigorously 
down  on  the  blotter.  "These  are  all  done,  every  blessed 
one,  James.     Now  what?'* 

In  an  instant  she  was  curled  up,  feet  and  all,  like  a  kitten 
in  his  lap,  her  small  brown  head,  its  wisps  of  fine,  straight 
hair  straying  over  temples  and  rounded  cheeks,  tucked 
comfortably  under  his  chin;  and  thus  every  point  was 
carefully  talked  over. 

With  many  exclamations  of  anxiety  and  doubt,  and 
much  discreet  suggestion  from  the  small  adviser,  it  was  at 
last  settled.  Frale  was  to  be  properly  clothed  from  the 
missionary  boxes  sent  every  year  from  the  North.  He 
should  stay  with  them  for  a  while  until  a  suitable  place 
could  be  found  for  him.  Above  all  things  he  must  be  kept 
out  of  bad  company. 

"Oh,  dear!  Poor  Cassandra!  After  all  her  hopes  — 
and  she  might  have  done  so  much  for  her  people  —  if 
only  —  "  Tears  stood  in  the  brown  eyes  and  even  ran  over 
and  dropped  upon  the  bishop's  coat  and  had  to  be  care- 
fully wiped  off,  for,  as  he  feelingly  remarked,  — 

"I  can't  go  about  wearing  my  wife's  tears  in  plain  view, 
now,  can  I .?  " 

And  then  Doctor  Hoyle's  young  friend  —  she  must  hear 
his  letter.  How  interesting  he  must  be!  Couldn't  they 
have  him  down  ?  And  when  the  bishop  next  went  up  the 
mountain,  might  she  accompany  him  ?  Oh,  no.  The  trip 
was  not  too  rough.  It  was  quite  possible  for  her.  She 
would  go  to  see  Cassandra  and  the  old  mother.  "  Poor 
Cassandra!" 

But  the  self-respecting  old  stepmother  and  her  daughter 
did  not  allow  these  kind  friends  to  trespass  on  any  mis- 
sionary supplies,  for  Uncle  Jerry  was  despatched  down  the 
mountain  with  a  bundle  on  the  back  of  his  saddle,  which 
was  quietly  left  at  the  bishop's  door ;  and  Frale  next  ap- 
peared in  a  neat  suit  of  homespun,  home  woven  and  dyed, 
and  home-made  clothing. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

IN  WHICH   DAVID   THRYNG  MAKES  A  DISCOVERY 

Standing  on  the  great  hanging  rock,  before  his  cabin, 
Thryng  imagined  himself  absolutely  solitary  in  the  centre 
of  a  wide  wilderness.  Even  the  Fall  Place,  where  lived  the 
Widow  Farwell,  although  so  near,  was  not  visible  from 
this  point ;  but  when  he  began  exploring  the  region  about 
him,  now  on  foot  and  now  on  horseback,  he  discovered  it 
to  be  really  a  country  of  homes. 

Every  mule  path  branching  off  into  what  seemed  an 
inaccessible  wild  led  to  some  cabin,  often  set  in  a  hollow 
on  a  few  acres  of  rich  soil,  watered  by  a  never  failing  spring, 
where  the  forest  growth  had  been  cut  away  to  make  culti- 
vation possible.  Sometimes  the  little  log  house  would  be 
perched  like  a  lonely  eagle's  nest  on  a  mere  shelflike  ledge 
jutting  out  from  the  mountain  wall,  but  always  below  it  or 
above  it  or  off  at  one  side  he  found  the  inevitable  pocket 
of  rich  soil  accumulated  by  the  wash  of  years,  where 
enough  corn  and  cow-peas  could  be  raised  for  cattle,  and 
cotton  and  a  few  sheep  to  provide  material  for  clothing  the 
family,  with  a  few  fowls  and  pigs  to  provide  their  food. 

Here  they  lived,  those  isolated  people,  in  quiet  inde- 
pendence and  contented  poverty,  craving  little  and  often 
having  less,  caring  nothing  for  the  great  world  outside 
their  own  environment,  looking  after  each  other  in  times 
of  sickness  and  trouble^  keeping  alive  the  traditions  of 
their  forefathers,  and  clinging  to  the  ancient  family 
feuds  and  friendships  from  generation  to  generation. 

David  soon  learned  that  they  had  among  themselves 
their  class  distinctions,  certain  among  them  holding  their 
heads  high,  in  the  knowledge  of  having  a  self-respecting 
ancestry,  and  training  their  children  to  reckon  themselves 
no  "common  trash,"  however  much  they  deprecated 
showing  the  pride  that  was  in  them. 

Many  days  passed  after  Frale's  departure  before  David 
learned  more  of  the  young  man's  unhappy  deed.  He  had 
gone  down  to  give  the  old  mother  some  necessary  care  and, 

76 


David  makes  a  Discovery  77 

finding  her  alone,  remained  to  talk  with  her.  Pleased  with 
her  quaint  expressions  and  virile  intellect,  he  led  her  on  to 
speak  of  her  youth;  and  one  morning,  weary  of  the  solitude 
and  silence,  she  poured  out  tales  of  Cassandra's  father, 
and  how,  after  his  death,  she  "came  to  marry  Farwell." 
She  told  of  her  own  mother,  and  the  hard  times  that  fell 
upon  them  during  the  bitter  days  of  the  Civil  War. 

The  traditions  of  her  family  were  dear  to  her,  and  she 
was  well  pleased  to  show  this  young  doctor  who  had  found 
the  key  to  her  warm,  yet  reserved,  heart  that  she  "wa'n't 
no  common  trash,"  and  her  "  chillen  wa'n't  like  the  runo' 
chillen." 

"Seems  like  I'm  talkin'  a  heap  too  much  o'  we-uns," 
she  said,  at  last. 

"No,  no.  Go  on.  You  say  you  had  no  school;  how 
did  you  learn  ?    You  were  reading  your  Bible  when  I  came 


m." 

(<- 


'No.  Thar  wa'n't  no  schools  in  my  day,  not  nigh 
enough  fer  me  to  go  to.  Maw,  she  could  read,  an'  write, 
too,  but  aftah  paw  jined  the  ahmy,  she  had  to  work  right 
ha'd  and  had  nothin'  to  do  with.  Paw,  he  had  to  jine  one 
side  or  t'othah.  Some  went  with  the  North  and  some 
went  with  the  South,  —  they  didn't  keer  much.  The'  wa'n't 
no  niggahs  up  here  to  fight  ovah.  But  them  war  cruel 
times  when  the  bushwackers  come  searchin'  'round  an* 
raidin'  our  homes.  They  were  a  bad  lot  —  most  of  'em 
war  desertahs  from  both  ahmies.  We-uns  war  obleeged 
to  hide  in  the  bresh  or  up  the  branch  —  anywhar  we  could 
find  a  place  to  creep  into.  Them  were  bad  times  fer  the 
women  an'  chillen  left  at  home. 

"Maw  used  to  save  ev'y  scrap  of  papah  she  could  find 
with  printin'  on  hit  to  larn  we-uns  our  lettahs  off 'n.  One 
time  come  'long  a  right  decent  captain  and  axed  maw 
could  she  get  he  an'  his  men  suthin'  to  eat.  He  had  nigh 
about  a  dozen  sogers  with  him ;  an'  maw,  she  done  the 
bes'  she  could,  —  cooked  corn-bread,  an'  chick'n  an'  sich. 
I  c'n  remember  how  he  sot  right  on  the  hearth  where  you're 
settin'  now,  an'  tossed  flapjacks  fer  th'  hull  crowd. 

"He  war  right  civil  when  he  lef,  an'  said  he'd  like  to  give 
maw  suthin',  but  they  hadn't  nothin'  but  Confed'rate 
money,  an'  hit  wa'n't  worth  nothin'  up  here ;  an'  maw  said 
would  he  give  her  the  newspapah  he  had.    She  seed  the 


78  The  Mountain  Girl 

« 

end  of  hit  standin*  out  of  his  pocket ;  an'  he  laughed  and 
give  hit  out  quick,  an'  axed  her  what  did  she  want  with  hit ; 
and  she  'lowed  she  could  teach  me  a  heap  o'  readin'  out  o' 
that  papah,  an'  he  laughed  again,  an'  said  likely,  fer  that 
hit  war  worth  more'n  the  money.  All  the  schoolin'  I  had 
war  just  that  thar  papah,  an'  that  old  spellin'-book  you  see 
on  the  shelf ;  I  c'n  remembah  how  maw  come  by  that,  too." 

"Tell  me  how  she  came  by  the  spelling-book,  will  you  ?*' 

"Hit  war  about  that  time.  Paw,  he  nevah  come  home 
again.  I  cyan't  remembah  much  'bouts  my  paw.  Maw 
used  to  say  a  heap  o'  times  if  she  only  had  a  spellin'-book 
like  she  used  to  larn  out'n,  'at  she  could  larn  we-uns  right 
smart.  Well,  one  day  one  o'  the  neighbors  told  her  'at  he'd 
seed  one  at  Gerret's,  ovah  t'othah  side  Lone  Pine  Creek, 
nigh  about  eight  mile,  I  reckon;  an'  she  'lowed  she'd  get 
hit.  So  she  sont  we-uns  ovah  to  Teasley's  mill  —  she  war 
that  scared  o'  the  Gorillas  she  didn't  like  leavin'  we-uns 
home  alone  —  an'  she  walked  thar  an'  axed  could  she  do 
suthin'  to  earn  that  thar  book;  an'  ol'  Miz  Gerret,  she 
'lowed  if  maw'd  come  Monday  follerin'  an'  wash  fer  her, 
'at  she  mount  have  hit.  Them  days  we-uns  an'  the  Teas- 
leys  war  right  friendly.  The'  wa'n't  no  feud  'twixt  we-uns 
an'  Teasleys  then  —  but  now  I  reckon  thar's  bound  to  be 
blood  feud."  She  spoke  very  sadly  and  waited,  leaving 
the  tale  of  the  spelling-book  half  told. 

"TMiy  must  there  be  'blood  feud'  now.'^  Why  can't 
you  go  on  in  the  old  way  ?  " 

"Hit's  Frale  done  hit.  He  an'  Ferd'nan'  Teasley,  they 
set  up  'stillin'  ovah  in  Dark  Cornder  yandah.  Hit  do 
work  a  heap  o'  trouble,  that  thar.  I  reckon  you-uns  don't 
have  no  thin'  sich  whar  you  come  from.^^" 

"We  have  things  quite  as  bad.  So  they  quarrelled,  did 
they?" 

"Yaas,  they  quarrelled,  an'  they  fit." 

"No  doubt  they  had  been  drinking." 

"Yas,  I  reckon." 

"But  just  a  drunken  quarrel  between  those  two  ought 
not  to  affect  all  the  rest.  Couldn't  you  patch  it  up  among 
you,  and  keep  the  boy  at  home  ?  You  must  need  his  help 
on  the  place." 

"We  need  him  bad  here,  but  the'  is  no  way  fer  to  make 
up  an*  right  a  blood  feud.     Frale  done  them  mean.    He 


David  makes  a  Discovery  79 

lifted  his  hand  an'  killed  his  friend.  Hit  war  Sunday 
evenin'  he  done  hit.  They  had  been  havin'  a  singin'  thar 
at  the  mill,  an'  preachah,  he  war  thar  too,  an'  all  war  kind 
an'  peaceable;  an'  Ferd  an'  Frale,  they  sot  out  fer  thar 
'  still '  —  Ferd  on  foot  an'  Frale  rid'n'  his  horse  —  the  one 
you  have  now  —  they  used  to  go  that-a-way,  rid'n'  turn 
about  —  one  horse  with  them  an'  one  horse  kep'  alluz  hid 
nigh  the  *  still '  lest  the  gov'nment  men  come  on  'em  suddent 
like.     Frale,  he  war  right  cute,  he  nevah  war  come  up  with. 

"  'Pears  like  they  stopped  'fore  they'd  gone  fer,  disputin' 
'bouts  some  thin'.  01'  Miz  Teasley  say  she  heered  ther 
voices  high  an'  loud,  an'  then  she  heered  a  shot  right  quick, 
that-a-way,  an'  nothin'  more ;  an'  she  sont  ol'  man  Teasley 
an'  the  preachah  out,  an'  the  hull  houseful  foUered,  an* 
thar  they  found  Ferd  lyin'  shot  dade  —  an'  Frale  —  he 
an'  the  horse  war  gone.  Ferd,  he  still  held  his  own  gun  in 
his  hand  tight,  like  he  war  goin'  to  shoot,  with  the  triggah 
open  an'  his  fingah  on  hit  —  but  he  nevah  got  the  chance. 
Likely  if  he  had,  hit  would  have  been  him  a-hidin'  now,  an' 
Frale  dade.     I  reckon  so." 

Thryng  listened  in  silence.  It  made  him  think  of  the 
old  tales  of  the  Scottish  border.  So,  in  plain  words,  the 
young  man  was  a  murderer.  With  deep  pity  he  recalled 
the  haunted  look  in  Frale's  eyes,  and  the  sadness  that 
trembled  around  Cassandra's  lips  as  she  said,  "I  reckon 
there  is  no  trouble  worse  than  ours."  A  thought  struck 
him,  and  he  asked  :  — 

"Do  you  know  what  they  quarrelled  about?" 

**He  nevah  let  on  what-all  was  the  fuss.  Likely  he  told 
Cass,  but  she  is  that  still.  Hit's  right  hard  to  raise  a  blood 
feud  thar  when  we-uns  an'  the  Teasleys  alluz  war  friends. 
She  took  keer  o'  me  when  my  chillen  come,  an'  I  took  keer 
o'  her  with  hern.  Ferd'nan'  too,  he  war  like  my  own,  fer 
I  nursed  him  when  she  had  the  fever  an'  her  milk  lef '  her. 
Cass  war  only  three  weeks  old  then,  an'  he  war  nigh  on  a 
year,  but  that  little  an'  sickly  —  he  like  to  'a'  died  if  I  hadn't 
took  him."  She  paused  and  wiped  away  a  tear  that 
trickled  down  the  furrow  of  her  thin  cheek.  "If  hit  war 
lef  to  us  women  fer  to  stir  'em  up,  I  reckon  thar  wouldn't 
be  no  feuds,  fer  hit's  hard  on  we-uns  when  we're  friendly, 
an'  Ferd  like  my  own  boy  that-a-way." 

"But  perhaps —"  David  spoke  musingly — "perhaps 


80  The  Mountain  Girl 

it  was  a  woman  who  stirred  up  the  trouble  between 
them." 

The  widow  looked  a  moment  with  startled  glance  into 
his  face,  then  turned  her  gaze  away.  *'I  reckon  not.  The' 
is  no  woman  far  or  near  as  I  evah  heern  o'  Frale  goin'  with." 

Still  pondering,  David  rose  to  go,  but  quickly  resumed 
his  seat,  and  turned  her  thoughts  again  to  the  past.  He 
would  not  leave  her  thus  sad  at  heart. 

''Won't  you  finish  telling  me  about  the  spelling-book  ?" 

"I  forget  how  come  hit,  but  maw  didn't  leave  wechillen 
to  Teasleys'  that  day  she  went  to  do  the  washin'.  Likely 
Miz  Teasley  war  sick  —  anyway  she  lef  us  here.  She 
baked  corn-bread  —  hit  war  all  we  had  in  the  house  to  eat 
them  days,  an'  she  fotched  water  fer  the  day,  an'  kivered  up 
the  fire.  Then  she  locked  the  door  an'  took  the  key  with 
her,  an'  tol'  we-uns  did  we  hear  a  noise  like  anybody 
tryin'  to  get  in,  to  go  up  garret  an'  make  out  like  thar 
wa'n't  nobody  to  home.  The'  war  three  o'  us  chillen. 
I  war  the  oldest.*  We  war  Caswells,  my  fam'ly.  My 
little  brothah  ^Vhitson,  he  war  sca'cely  more'n  a  baby, 
runnin'  'round  pullin'  things  down  on  his  hade  whar  he 
could  reach,  an'  Cotton  war  mos'  as  much  keer  —  that 
reckless." 

She  paused  and  smiled  as  she  recalled  the  cares  of 
her  childhood,  then  wandered  on  in  her  slow  narration. 
"They  done  a  heap  o'  things  that  day  to  about  drive  me 
plumb  crazy,  an'  all  the  time  we  was  thinkin'  we  heered 
men  talkin'  or  horses  trompin'  outside,  an'  kep'  ourselves 
right  busy  runnin'  up  garret  to  hide. 

"Along  towa'ds  night  hit  come  on  to  snow,  an'  then 
turned  to  rain,  a  right  cold  hard  rain,  an'  we  war  that  cold 
an'  hungry  —  an'  Whit,  he  cried  fer  maw,  —  an'  hit  come 
dark  an'  we  had  et  all  the'  war  to  eat  long  before,  so  we 
had  no  suppah,  an'  the  poor  leetle  fellers  war  that  cold  an' 
shiverin'  thar  in  the  dark  —  I  made  'em  climb  into  bed 
like  they  war,  an'  kivered  'em  up  good,  an'  thar  I  lay  tryin' 
to  make  out  like  I  war  maw,  gettin'  my  arms  'round  both 
of  'em  to  oncet.  Whit  cried  hisself  to  sleep,  but  Cotton  he 
kep'  sayin'  he  heered  men  knockin'  'round  outside,  an'  at 
last  he  fell  asleep,  too.  He  alluz  war  a  natch'ly  skeered 
kind  o'  child. 

"Then  I  lay  thar  still,  list'nin'  to  the  rain  beat  on  the 


David  makes  a  Discovery  81 

roof,  an'  thinkin'  would  maw  ever  get  back  again,  an' 
list'nin'  to  hear  her  workin'  with  the  lock  —  hit  war  a 
padlock  on  the  outside  —  an'  thar  I  must  o'  drapped  off  to 
sleep  that-a-way,  fer  I  didn't  hear  nothin',  no  more  until  I 
woke  up  with  a  soft  murmurin'  sound  in  my  ears,  an'  thar 
I  seed  maw.  The  rain  had  stopped  an'  hit  war  mos'  day, 
I  reckon,  with  a  mornin'  moon  shinin'  in  an'  fallin'  on  her 
whar  she  knelt  by  the  bed,  clost  nigh  to  me.  I  can  see  hit 
now,  that  long  line  o'  white  light  streamin'  acrost  the 
floor  an'  fallin'  on  her,  makin'  her  look  like  a  white  ghost 
spirit,  an'  her  two  hands  held  up  with  that  thar  book 
'twixt  'em. 

"I  knew  hit  war  maw,  fer  I'd  seed  her  pray  before,  but  I 
war  skeered  fer  all  that.  I  lay  right  still  an'  held  my 
breath,  an'  heered  her  thank  the  Lord  fer  keerin'  fer  we-uns 
whilst  she  war  gone,  an'  fer  'lowin'  her  to  get  that  thar  book. 

"I  don't  guess  she  knew  I  seed  her,  fer  she  got  up  right 
still  an'  soft,  like  not  to  wake  we-uns,  an'  began  to  light  the 
fire  an'  make  some  yarb  tea.  She  war  that  wet  an'  cold 
I  could  see  her  hand  shake  whilst  she  held  the  match  to  the 
light'ud  stick.  Them  days  maw  made  coffee  out'n  burnt 
corn-bread,  an'  tea  out'n  dried  blackberry  leaves  an'  sassa- 
frax  root."  She  paused  and  turned  her  face  toward  the 
open  door.  David  thought  she  had  lost  somewhat  the 
appearance  of  age ;  certainly,  what  with  the  long  rest,  and 
Cassandra's  loving  care,  she  had  no  longer  the  weary, 
haggard  look  that  had  struck  him  when  he  saw  her  first. 

Following  the  direction  of  her  gaze,  he  went  to  the  shelf 
and  took  down  the  old  spelling-book,  and  turned  the  leaves, 
now  limp  and  worn.  So  this  was  Cassandra's  inheritance 
—  part  of  it  —  the  inward  impulse  that  would  urge  to 
toil  all  day,  then  walk  miles  in  rain  and  darkness  through 
a  wilderness,  and  thank  the  Lord  for  the  privilege  —  to 
own  this  book  —  not  for  herself,  but  for  the  generations 
to  come.  David  touched  it  reverently,  glad  to  know  so 
much  of  her  past,  and  turned  to  the  old  mother  for  more. 

"Have  you  anything  else  —  like  this  ?  " 

Her  sharp  eyes  sparkled  as  she  looked  narrowly  at  him. 
*'I  have  suthin'  'at  I  hain't  nevah  told  anybody  livin' 
a  word  of,  not  even  Doctah  Hoyle  —  only  he  war  some 
differ'nt  from  you.  But  I'm  gettin'  old,  an'  I  may  as  well 
tell  you.    Likely  with  all  your  larnin'  you  can  tell  me  is  it 


82  The  Mountain  Girl 

any  good  to  Cass.  She  be  that  sot  on  all  sech."  She 
fumbled  at  her  throat  a  moment  and  drew  from  the  bosom 
of  her  gown  a  leather  shoe-lacing,  from  which  dangled 
an  iron  key.  Slowly  she  undid  the  knot,  and  handed  it 
toward  him. 

*'I  nevah  *low  nobody  on  earth  to  touch  that  thar  box, 
an'  the'  ain't  a  soul  livin'  knows  what's  in  hit.  I  been 
gyardin'  them  like  they  war  gold,  fer  they  belonged  to  my 
ol'  man  —  the  first  one  —  Cassandra's  fathah ;  but  I 
reckon  if  I  die  the'  won't  nobody  see  any  good  in  them 
things.  If  you'll  onlock  that  thar  padlock  on  that  box 
yander,  you'll  find  it  wropped  in  a  piece  o'  gingham.  My 
paw's  mothah  spun  an'  wove  that  gingham  —  ol'  Miz 
Caswell.  They  don't  many  do  work  like  that  nowadays. 
They  lived  right  whar  we  a'  livin'  now." 

David  unlocked  the  chest  and  lifted  the  heavy  lid. 

"Hit's  down  in  the  further  cornder  —  that's  hit,  I 
reckon.  Just  step  to  the  door,  will  you,  an'  see  is  they 
anybody  nigh." 

He  went  to  the  door,  but  saw  no  one ;  only  from  the 
shed  came  an  intermittent  rat-tat-tat. 

"I  don't  see  any  one,  but  I  hear  some  one  pounding.'* 

"Hit's  only  Hoyle  makin'  his  traps."  She  sighed,  then 
slowly  and  tenderly  untied  the  parcel  and  placed  in  his 
hands  two  small  leather-bound  books.  Tied  to  one  by 
a  faded  silk  cord  which  marked  the  pages  was  a  thin, 
worn  ring  of  gold. 

"That  ring  war  his  maw's,  an'  when  we  war  married,  I 
wore  hit,  but  when  I  took  Farwell  fer  my  ol'  man,  I  nevah 
wore  hit  any  more,  fer  he  'lowed,  bein'  hit  war  gold  that-a- 
way,  we'd  ought  to  sell  hit.  That  time  I  took  the  lock 
off 'n  the  door  an'  put  hit  on  that  thar  box.  Hit  war  my 
gran'maw's  box,  an'  I  done  wore  the  key  hyar  evah  since. 
Can  you  tell  what  they  be  ?  Hit's  the  quarest  kind  of 
print  I  evah  see.  He  used  to  make  out  like  he  could  read 
hit.     Likely  he  did,  fer  whatevah  he  said,  he  done." 

It  seemed  to  her  little  short  of  a  miracle  that  any  one 
could  read  it,  but  David  soon  learned  that  her  confidence 
in  her  first  "old  man"  was  unlimited. 

"What-all's  in  hit?"  She  grew  restless  while  he  care- 
fully and  silently  examined  her  treasure,  the  true  signifi- 
cance of  which  she  so  little  knew.     Filled  with  amaze- 


David  makes  a  Discovery  83 

ment  and  with  a  keen  pleasure,  he  took  the  books  to  the 
Hght.     The  print  was  fine,  even,  and  clear. 

"What-all  be  they?"  she  reiterated.  "Reckon  the're 
no  good  ?** 

David  smiled.  "In  one  way  they're  all  the  good  in  the 
world,  but  not  for  money,  you  know." 

"No,  I  don't  guess.  Can  you  read  that  thar  quare 
pnntm  f 

"Yes.  The  letters  are  Greek,  and  these  books  are  about 
a  hundred  years  old." 

"Be  they  .f^  Then  they  won't  be  much  good  to  Cass,  I 
reckon.  He  sot  a  heap  by  them,  but  I  war  'feared  they 
mount  be  heathen.  Greek  —  that  thar  be  heathen. 
Hain't  hit?"  ^ 

David  continued,  speaking  more  to  himself  than  to  her. 
"They  were  published  in  London  in  eighteen  twelve. 
They  have  been  read  by  some  one  who  knew  them  well, 
I  can  see  by  these  marginal  notes." 

"What  be  they  ?"     Her  curiosity  was  eager  and  intent. 

"They  are  explanations  and  comments,  written  here  on 
the  margin  —  see  ?  —  with  a  fine  pen." 

"His  grandpaw  done  that  thar.  What  be  they  about, 
anyhow?" 

"They  are  very  old  poems  written  long  before  this 
country  was  discovered." 

"An'  that  must  'a'  been  before  the  Revolution.  His 
grandpaw  fit  in  that.  The'  is  somethin'  more  in  thar. 
I  kept  hit  hid,  fer  Farwell,  he  war  bound  to  melt  hit  up 
fer  silver  bullets.  He  'lowed  them  bullets  war  plumb 
sure  to  kill.  Reckon  you  can  find  hit  ?  Thar  'tis."  Her 
eyes  shone  as  Thryng  drew  out  another  object  also  wrapped 
in  gingham.  "Hit's  a  teapot,  I  guess,  but  Farwell,  he  got 
a-hold  of  hit  an'  melted  off  the  spout  to  make  his  silvah 
bullets.  That  time  I  hid  all  in  the  box  an'  put  on  the  bolt 
an'  lock  whilst  he  war  away  'stillin'.  The'  is  one  bullet 
left,  but  I  reckon  Frale  has  hit." 

David  took  it  from  her  hand  and  turned  it  about. 
"Surely  !  This  is  a  treasure.  Here  is  a  coat  of  arms  — 
but  it  is  so  worn  I  can't  make  out  the  emblem.  Was  this 
your  husband's  also  ?     Is  there  anything  else  ?" 

"That's  all.  Yes,  they  war  hisn.  I  war  plumb  mad  at 
Farwell.     I  nevah  could  get  ovah  what  he  done,  all  so't  he 


84  The  Mountain  Girl 

mount  sure  kill  somebody.     Likely  he  meant  them  bullets 
fer  the  revenue  officers,  should  they  come  up  with  him." 

*'It  would  have  been  a  great  pity  if  he  had  destroyed 
this  mark.  I  think  —  I'm  not  sure  —  but  if  it's  what  I 
imagine,  it  is  from  an  old  family  in  Wales." 

"I  reckon  you're  right,  fer  they  were  Welsh  —  his  paw's 
folks  way  back.  He  used  to  say  the'  wa'n't  no  name 
older'n  hisn  since  the  Bible.  I  told  him  'twar  time  he 
got  a  new  one  if  'twere  that  old,  but  he  said  he  reckoned 
a  name  war  like  whiskey  —  hit  needed  a  right  smart  o' 
age  to  make  hit  worth  anything." 

Thryng  laid  the  antique  silver  pot  on  the  bed  beside  the 
old  mother's  hand  and  again  took  up  the  small  volumes. 
As  he  held  them,  a  thought  flashed  through  his  mind,  yet 
hardly  a  thought,  —  it  was  more  of  an  illumination,  — 
like  a  vista  suddenly  opened  through  what  had  seemed  an 
impenetrable,  impalpable  wall,  beyond  which  lay  a  joy 
yet  to  be,  but  before  unseen.  In  that  instant  of  time,  a 
vision  appeared  to  him  of  what  life  might  bring,  glorified 
by  a  tender  light  as  of  red  fire  seen  through  a  sweet,  blue, 
obscuring  mist,  and  making  thus  a  halo  about  the  one 
figure  of  the  vision  outlined  against  it,  clear  and  fine. 

"'Pears  like  you  find  somethin'  right  interestin'  in  that 
book ;  be  you  readin'  hit  V^ 

"I  find  a  glorious  prophecy.  Was  your  first  husband 
born  and  raised  here  as  you  were  ?" 

"Not  on  this  spot;  but  he  was  born  an'  raised  like  we- 
uns  here  in  the  mountains  —  ovah  th'other  side  Pisgah. 
I  seed  him  first  when  I  wa'n't  more'n  seventeen.  He  come 
here  fer  —  I  don't  rightly  recollect  what,  only  he  had  been 
deer  huntin'  an'  come  late  evenin'  he  drapped  in.  He 
had  lost  his  dog,  an'  he  had  a  bag  o'  birds,  an'  he  axed 
maw  could  she  cook  'em  an'  give  him  suppah,  an'  maw, 
she  took  to  him  right  smaht. 

**  Aftah  suppah  —  I  remember  like  hit  war  last  evenin' 
—  he  took  gran'paw's  old  fiddle  an'  tuned  hit  up  an'  sot 
thar  an*  played  everything  you  evah  heered.  He  played 
like  the'  war  birds  singin'  an'  rain  fallin',  an'  like  the  wind 
when  hit  goes  wailin'  round  the  house  in  the  pine  tops  — 
soft  an'  sad  —  like  that-a-way.  Gran'paw's  old  fiddle. 
I  used  to  keer  a  heap  fer  hit,  but  one  time  Farwell  got 
religion,  an'  he  took  an'  broke  hit  'cause  he  war  'feared 


David  makes  a  Discovery  85 

Frale  mount  larn  to  play  an'  hit  would  be  a  temptation 
of  the  devil  to  him." 

"Well,  I  say  !     That  was  a  crime,  you  know." 

"Yes.  Sometimes  I  lay  here  an'  say  what-all  did  I 
marry  Farwell  fer,  anyway.  Well  —  every  man  has  his 
failin's,  the'  say,  an'  Farwell,  he  sure  had  hisn." 

"May  I  keep  these  books  a  short  time  "^  I  will  be  very 
careful  of  them.  You  know  that,  or  you  would  not  have 
shown  them  to  me," 

"You  take  them  as  long  as  you  like.  Hit  ain't  like  hit 
used  to  be.  Books  is  easy  come  by  these  days  —  too  easy, 
I  reckon.  Cassandrj^  she  brung  a  whole  basketful  of 
'em  with  her.  Thar  they  be  on  that  cheer  behin'  my 
spinnin'- wheel." 

"Was  the  basket  full  of  books  .^  So,  that  was  why  it 
was  so  heavy.     Might  I  have  a  look  at  them  ?" 

"Look  'em  ovah  all  you  want  to.  She  won't  keer,  I 
reckon.  She  hain't  had  a  mite  o'  time  since  she  come  home 
to  look  at  'em." 

But  David  thought  better  of  it.  He  would  not  look 
in  her  basket  and  pry  among  her  treasures  without  her 
permission. 

"When  is  she  coming  back.^^"  he  asked,  awakened  to 
desire  further  knowledge  of  the  silent  girl's  aspirations. 

"Soon,  I  reckon.  She's  been  a  right  smart  spell  longah 
now  'n  she  'lowed  she'd  be.  Hit's  old  man  Irwin.  He's 
been  hurted  some  way.  She  went  ovah  to  see  could  Aunt 
Sally  Carew  go  an'  help  Miz  Irwin  keer  fer  him  —  she's 
a  fool  thing,  don't  know  nothin'.  They  sont  down  fer 
me  —  but  here  I  be,  so  she  rode  the  colt  ovah  fer  Sally.'* 

David  wrapped  and  tied  the  piece  of  silver  as  he  had 
found  it.  As  he  replaced  it  in  the  box,  he  discovered  the 
pieces  of  the  broken  fiddle  loosely  tied  in  a  sack,  precious 
relics  of  a  joy  that  was  past.  Carefully  he  locked  the  box 
and  returned  the  key,  but  the  books  he  folded  in  the  strip 
of  gingham  and  carried  away  with  him. 

"I'll  be  back  to-night  or  in  the  morning.  If  she  doesn't 
return,  send  Hoyle  for  me.  You  mustn't  be  too  long 
alone.     Shall  I  mend  the  fire  .^  " 

He  threw  on  another  log,  then  lifted  her  a  little  and 
brought  her  a  glass  of  cool  water,  and  climbed  back  to  his 
cabin,  walking  hghtly  and  swiftly. 


CHAPTER  IX 

IN  WHICH  DAVID  ACCOMPANIES  CASSANDRA  ON  AN    ERRANT 

OF  MERCY 

Filled  with  the  enthusiasm  of  his  thoughts,  David 
cHmbed  too  rapidly,  and  now  he  found  he  must  take  the 
more  gradual  rise  of  the  mule  trail  without  haste.  His 
cap  thrust  in  his  pocket,  the  breeze  lifted  his  hair  and 
dried  the  perspiration  which  would  still  come  with  any  too 
eager  exertion.  But  why  should  he  care  ?  Even  to  be 
alive  these  days  was  joy.  This  was  continually  the  refrain 
of  his  heart,  nor  had  he  begun  to  exhaust  his  resources 
for  entertainment  in  his  solitary  life. 

Never  were  the  days  too  long.  Each  was  filled  with 
such  new  and  lively  interest  as  to  preclude  the  thought  of 
ennui.  To  provide  against  it,  he  had  sent  for  books  — 
more  than  he  had  had  time  to  read  in  all  the  busy  days  of 
the  last  three  years.  These  and  his  microscope  and  his 
surgical  instruments  had  been  brought  him  on  a  mule 
team  by  Jerry  Carew,  who  did  his  "toting"  for  him, 
fetching  all  he  needed  for  work  or  comfort,  in  this  way, 
from  the  nearest  station  where  goods  could  be  sent  until 
the  hotel  opened  in  the  early  summer.  Not  that  he  needed 
them,  but  that,  as  an  artist  loves  to  keep  a  supply  of  paints 
and  canvas,  or  a  writer  —  even  when  idle  —  is  happier  to 
know  that  he  has  at  hand  plenty  of  pens  and  blank  paper, 
he  liked  to  have  them. 

Thus  far  he  had  felt  no  more  need  of  his  books  than  he 
had  for  his  surgical  instruments,  but  now  he  was  glad 
he  had  them  for  the  sake  of  the  girl  who  was  "that  sot  on 
all  such."  He  would  open  the  box  the  moment  he  had 
eaten,  and  look  them  over.  The  little  brother  should  take 
them  down  to  her  one  at  a  time  —  or  better  —  he  would 
take  them  himself  and  watch  the  smile  which  came  so 
rarely  and  sweetly  to  play  about  her  lips,  and  in  her  eyes, 
and  vanish.     Surely  he  had  a  right  to  that  for  his  pains. 

He  heard  the  sound  of  rapid  hoof  beats  approaching 
across  the  level  space  from  the  cabin  above  him,  and  look- 

86 


An  Errand  of  Mercy  87 

iag  up,  as  if  conjured  from  his  innermost  thought,  he  saw 
her  coming,  allowing  the  colt  to  swing  along  as  he  would. 
Her  bonnet  hung  by  the  strings  from  her  arm,  her  hair 
blew  in  crinkling  wisps  across  her  face,  and  the  rapid 
exercise  had  brought  roses  into  the  creamy  whiteness  of 
her  skin.  She  kept  to  the  brow  of  the  ridge  and  would 
have  passed  him  unseeing,  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  distant 
hills,  had  he  not  called  to  her  in  his  clear  Alpine  jodel. 

She  reined  in  sharply  and,  slipping  from  the  saddle, 
walked  quickly  to  him,  leading  the  colt,  which  was  warm 
and  panting  as  if  he  had  carried  her  a  good  distance  at 
that  pace. 

"Oh,  Doctor  Thryng,  we  need  you  right  bad.  That's 
why  I  took  this  way  home.  Have  you  been  to  the 
house  ?  " 

"Yes.     I  have  just  come  from  there." 

"Is  mother  all  right  .?^" 

"Doing  splendidly."  He  waited,  and  she  lifted  her  face 
to  him  anxiously. 

"We  need  you  bad.  Doctor." 

"Yes  —  but  not  you  —  you're  not — "  he  began 
stupidly. 

"It's  Mr.  Irwin.  I  went  there  to  see  could  I  help  any, 
and  seemed  like  I  couldn't  get  here  soon  enough.  When 
I  found  you  were  not  at  home,  I  was  that  troubled.  Can 
—  can  you  go  up  there  and  see  why  I  can't  rest  for  think- 
ing he's  a  heap  worse  than  he  reckons  ?  He  thinks  he's 
better,  but  —  but  — " 

"Come  in  and  rest  and  tell  me  about  it." 

"Mistress  Irwin  isn't  quite  well,  and  I  must  go  back  as 
soon  as  I  can  get  everything  done  at  home.  I  must  get 
dinner  for  mother  and  Hoyle.  You  have  been  that  kind 
to  mother  —  I  thought  —  I  thought  —  if  you  could  only 
see  him  —  they  can't  spare  him  to  die." 

"  Indeed,  I'll  go,  gladly.  But  you  must  tell  me  more, 
so  that  I  may  know  what  to  take  with  me.  What  is  the 
matter  with  the  man  ?  Is  he  ill  or  hurt  ?  Let  me  —  oh, 
you  are  an  independent  young  woman." 

She  had  turned  from  him  to  mount,  and  he  stepped 
forward  with  outstretched  hand  to  aid  her,  but,  in  a  breath, 
not  seeing  his  offer,  she  placed  her  two  hands  on  the  horn 
of  the  saddle,  and  from  the  slight  rise  of  ground  whereon 


88  The  Mountain  Girl 

she  stood,  with  one  agile  spring,  landed  easily  in  the  saddle 
and  wheeled  about. 

*'He's  been  cutting  trees  to  clear  a  patch  for  corn,  and 
some  way  he  hurt  his  foot,  and  he's  been  lying  there  nigh 
a  week  with  the  misery.  Last  evening  she  sent  one  of  the 
children  for  mother,  not  knowing  she  was  bad  herself, 
so  I  went  for  Aunt  Sally ;  but  she  was  gone,  so  I  rode  on 
to  the  Irwins  to  see  could  I  help.  He  said  he  wasn't 
suffering  so  much  to-day,  and  it  made  my  heart  just  stop 
to  hear  that,  when  he  couldn't  lift  himself.  You  see,  my 
stepfather  —  he  —  he  was  shot  in  the  arm,  and  right  soon 
when  the  misery  left  him,  he  died,  so  I  didn't  say  much  — 
but  on  the  way  home  I  thought  of  you,  and  I  came  here 
fast.  We  know  so  little  here  on  the  mountains,"  she  added 
sadly,  as  she  looked  earnestly  down  at  him. 

"You  have  acted  wisely.  Just  ride  on,  Miss  Cassandra, 
and  I  will  follow  as  soon  as  — '* 

"Come  dovv^n  with  me  now  and  have  dinnah  at  our  place. 
Then  we  can  start  togethah." 

"Thank  you,  I  will.  You  are  more  expert  in  the  art  of 
dinner  getting  than  I  am,  so  we  will  lose  less  time."  He 
laughed  and  was  rewarded  with  the  flash  of  a  grateful 
smile  as  she  started  on  without  another  w^ord. 

It  took  David  but  a  few  minutes  to  select  what  articles 
he  suspected,  from  her  account,  might  be  required.  He 
hurried  his  preparations,  and,  being  his  own  groom,  stable 
boy,  and  man-of-all-work,  he  was  very  busy  about  it. 

As  a  strain  of  music  or  a  floating  melody  will  linger  in 
the  background  with  insistent  repetition,  while  the  brain 
is  at  the  same  time  busily  occupied  with  surface  affairs, 
so  he  found  himself  repeating  some  of  her  quaint  phrases, 
and  seeing  her  eyes  —  the  wisps  of  wind-blown  hair  — 
and  the  smile  on  her  lips,  as  she  turned  away,  like  an 
accompaniment  to  all  he  was  thinking  and  doing. 

Soon,  equipped  for  whatever  the  emergency  might 
demand,  he  was  at  the  widow's  door.  His  horse  nickered 
and  stretched  out  his  nose  toward  Cassandra's  colt  as 
if  glad  to  have  once  more  a  little  horse  companionship. 
Side  by  side  they  stood,  with  bridles  slipped  back  and  hung 
to  their  saddles,  while  they  crunched  contentedly  at  the 
corn  on  the  ear,  which  Hoyle  had  brought  them. 

While  at  dinner,  Cassandra  showed  David  her  books, 


An  Errand  of  Mercy  89 

pleased  that  he  asked  to  see  them.  "I  brought  them  to 
study,  should  I  get  time.  It's  right  hard  to  give  up  hope 
— "  she  glanced  at  her  mother  and  lowered  her  voice. 
*'To  stop  —  anyhow  —  I  thought  I  might  teach  Hoyie 
a  little." 

"Ah,  these  are  mostly  school-books,"  he  said,  glancing 
them  over. 

"Yes,  I  was  at  school  this  time  —  near  Farington  it  was. 
Once  I  stayed  with  Bishop  Towahs  and  helped  do  house- 
work. I  could  learn  a  heap  there  —  between  times. 
They  let  me  have  all  the  books  I  wanted  to  read."  She 
looked  lovingly  at  her  few  precious  school-books.  "I 
haven't  touched  these  since  I  got  back  —  we're  that 
busy." 

Then  she  resumed  her  work  about  the  house,  cooking 
at  the  fireplace,  waiting  upon  David,  and  serving  her 
mother,  while  directing  Hoyle  what  to  do,  should  she  be 
detained  that  night.  He  demurred  and  hung  about  her, 
begging  her  not  to  stay. 

"I  won't,  son,  without  I  can't  help  it.  You  won't 
care  so  much  now  —  mother's  not  bad  like  she  was." 

"Yas,  I  will,"  he  mourned. 

"I  reckon  I'll  have  to  call  you  'baby'  again,"  said  his 
mother.  "  You're  gettin'  that  babyfied  since  Cass  come 
back  doin'  all  fer  ye.  You  has  a  heap  o'  compan3^  Thar's 
the  cow  to  keer  fer,  'n'  ol'  Pete  hollerin'  at  ye,  an'  the 
chickens  tellin'  how  many  aigs  they've  laid  fer  ye.  Run 
now.  Thar's  ol'  Frizzle  cacklin'.  Get  the  aig,  an'  we'll 
send  hit  to  the  pore  sick  man.  Thar,  Cass,"  she  added,  as 
Hoyle  ran  out,  half  ashamed,  to  do  her  bidding —  "hit's 
your  own  fault  fer  makin'  such  a  baby  of  him.  I  'low 
you  betteh  take  'long  a  few  fresh  aigs ;  likely  they'll  need 
'em,  so  triflin'  they  be.  I  don't  guess  you'll  find  a  thing  in 
the  house  fer  him  to  eat." 

Cassandra  packed  one  of  her  oddty  shaped  little  baskets, 
as  her  mother  suggested,  for  the  sadly  demoralized  and 
distracted  family  to  which  they  were  going,  and  tucked  in 
with  the  rest  the  warm,  newly  laid  egg  Hoyle  brought  her, 
smiling  indulgently,  and  kissing  his  upturned  face  as  she 
took  it  from  him. 

Toward  David  she  was  alwavs  entirely  simple  and 
natural,  except  when  abashed  by  his  speech,  which  seemed 


90  The  Mountain  Girl 

to  her  most  elaborate  and  sometimes  mystifying.  She 
would  pause  and  gaze  on  him  an  instant  when  he  extended 
to  her  a  courtesy,  as  if  to  give  it  its  exact  value.  Not 
that  she  in  the  least  distrusted  him,  quite  the  contrary, 
but  that  she  was  wholly  unused  to  hearing  phrased  cour- 
tesies, or  enthusiasms  expressed  in  the  form  of  words. 

She  had  seen  something  of  it  in  the  bishop's  pretty 
complimentary  pleasantries  with  his  wife,  but  David's 
manner  of  handing  her  a  chair,  offering  her  a  suggestion 
—  with  a  "May  I  be  allowed.'^"  was  foreign  to  her,  and 
she  accepted  such  remarks  with  a  moment's  hesitation 
and  a  certain  aloofness  hardly  understood  by  him. 

He  found  himself  treating  her  with  a  measure  of  freedom 
from  the  constraint  which  men  often  place  upon  themselves 
because  of  the  recognition  of  the  personal  element  which 
will  obtrude  between  them  and  femininity  in  general. 
He  recognized  the  reason  for  this  in  her  absolute  lack  of 
coquetry  toward  him,  but  analyze  the  phenomenon,  as 
yet,  he  could  not. 

To  her  he  was  a  being  from  another  world,  strange  and 
delightful,  but  set  as  far  from  her  as  if  the  sea  divided  them. 
She  turned  toward  him  sweet,  expectant  eyes.  She  lis- 
tened attentively,  gropingly  sometimes.  She  would  under- 
stand him  if  she  could,  —  would  learn  from  him  and  trust 
him  implicitly,  —  but  her  femininity  never  obtruded  itself. 
Hei  personality  seemed  to  be  enclosed  within  herself 
and  never  to  lean  toward  him  with  the  subtile  flattery  men 
feel  and  like  to  awaken,  but  which  they  often  fear  to  arouse 
when  they  wish  to  remain  themselves  unstirred.  Her 
dignified  poise  and  perfect  freedom  from  all  arts  to  attract 
his  favor  and  attention  pleased  him,  but  while  it  gave  him 
the  safe  and  unconstrained  feeling  when  with  her,  it  still 
piqued  his  man's  nature  a  little  to  see  her  so  capable  of 
showing  tenderness  to  her  own,  yet  so  unstirred  by  him- 
self. 

Cassandra  had  never  been  up  to  his  cabin  when  he  was 
there,  until  to-day,  since  the  morning  she  came  to  consult 
him  about  Frale,  nor  had  that  young  man's  name  been 
uttered  between  them.  David  had  said  nothing  to  her  of 
the  return  of  the  valise,  not  wishing  to  touch  on  the  sub- 
ject unless  she  gave  the  opportunity  for  him  to  ask  what 
she  knew  about  it.     Now,  since  his  morning's  talk  with  her 


An  Errand  of  Mercy  91 

mother  had  envisioned  an  ideal,  and  shown  a  glory  beyond, 
he  was  glad  to  have  this  opportunity  of  being  alone  with 
her  and  of  sounding  her  depths. 

For  a  long  time  they  rode  in  silence,  and  he  remembered 
her  mother's  words,  "He  may  have  told  Cass,  but  she  is 
that  still."  She  carried  her  basket  carefully  before  her 
on  the  pommel  of  her  saddle.  Gradually  the  large  sun- 
bonnet  which  quite  hid  her  face  slipped  back,  and  the  sun 
lighted  the  bronze  tints  of  her  hair.  As  he  rode  at  her 
side  he  studied  her  watchfully,  so  simply  dressed  in  home- 
spun material  which  had  faded  from  its  original  color  to 
a  sort  of  turquoise  green.  The  stuff  was  heavy  and  clung 
closely  to  her  figure,  and  she  rode  easily,  perched  on  her 
small,  old-fashioned  side-saddle,  swaying  with  lithe  move- 
ment to  the  motion  of  her  horse.  She  wore  no  wrap, 
only  a  soft  silk  kerchief  knotted  about  her  neck,  the  flutter- 
ing ends  of  which  caressed  her  chin. 

Her  cheeks  became  rosy  with  the  exercise,  and  her  gray 
eyes,  under  the  green  pines  and  among  the  dense  laurel 
thickets,  took  on  a  warm,  luminous  green  tint  like  the  hue 
of  her  dress.  David  at  last  found  it  difiicult  to  keep  his 
eyes  from  her,* — this  veritable  flower  of  the  wilderness, — 
and  all  this  time  no  word  had  been  spoken  between  them. 
How  impersonal  and  far  away  from  him  she  seemed  ! 
While  he  was  filled  with  interest  in  her  and  eager  to  learn 
the  secret  springs  of  her  life,  she  was  riding  on  and  on, 
swaying  to  her  horse  as  a  flower  on  its  slender  stem  sways 
in  a  breeze,  as  undisturbed  bv  him  as  if  she  were  not  a 
human  breathing  girl,  subject  to  man's  dominating  power. 

Was  she,  then,  so  utterly  untouched  by  his  masculine 
presence  ?  he  wondered.  If  he  did  not  speak  first,  would 
she  keep  silent  forever  ?  Should  he  wait  and  see  ?  Should 
he  will  her  to  speak  and  of  herself  unfold  to  him  ? 

Suddenly  she  turned  and  looked  clearly  and  pleasantly 
in  his  eyes.  "We'll  be  on  a  straight  road  for  a  piece  after 
this  hill ;  shall  we  hurry  a  little  then  ?  " 

"Certainly,  if  you  think  best.  You  set  the  pace,  and 
I'll  follow."     Again  silence  fell. 

"Do  you  feel  in  a  hurry  ?"  he  asked  at  length. 

"I  would  like  to  get  there  soon.  We  can't  tell  what 
might  be."  She  pressed  her  hand  an  instant  to  her  throat 
and  drew  in  her  breath  as  if  something  hurt  her. 


92  The  Mountain  Girl 

"What  is  it?"  he  asked,  drawing  his  horse  nearer. 

** Nothing.     Only  I  wish  we  were  there  now." 

"You  are  suffering  in  anticipation,  and  it  isn't  necessary. 
Better  not,  indeed.     Think  of  something  else." 

"Yes,  suli."  The  two  little  words  sounded  humbly 
submissive.  He  had  never  been  so  baffled  in  an  endeavor 
to  bring  another  soul  into  a  mood  responsive  to  his  own. 
This  gentle  acquiescence  w  as  not  what  he  wished,  but  that 
she  should  reveal  herself  and  betray  to  him  even  a  hint 
—  a  gleam  — of  the  deep  undercurrent  of  her  life. 

Suddenly  they  emerged  on  the  crest  of  a  narrow  ridge 
from  which  they  could  see  off  over  range  after  range  of 
mountain  peaks  on  one  side,  growing  dimmer,  bluer,  and 
more  evanescent  until  lost  in  a  heavenly  distance,  and  on 
the  other  side  a  valley  dropping  down  and  down  into  a  deep 
and  purple  gloom  richly  w^ooded  and  dense,  surrounded 
by  precipices  topped  with  scrubby,  wind-blown  pines  and 
oaks  —  a  wild  and  rocky  descent  into  mystery  and  seclu- 
sion. Here  and  there  a  slender  thread  of  smoke,  intensely 
blue,  rose  circling  and  filtering  through  the  purple  density 
against  a  black-green  background  of  hemlocks. 

Contrasted  w  ith  the  view^  on  the  other  side,  so  celestially 
fair,  this  seemed  to  present  something  sinister,  yet  weirdly 
beautiful  —  a  baffling,  untamed  wilderness.  Along  this 
ridge  the  road  ran  straight  before  them  for  a  distance, 
stony  and  bleak,  and  the  air  swept  over  it  sweet  and  strong 
from  the  sea,  far  aw^ay. 

"Wait  —  wait  a  moment,"  he  called,  as  his  panting  horse 
rounded  the  last  curve  of  the  climb,  and  she  had  already 
put  her  own  to  a  gallop.  She  reined  in  sharply  and  came 
back  to  him,  a  glowing  vision.  "Stand  a  moment  near 
me.  We'll  let  our  horses  rest  a  bit  and  ourselves,  too. 
There  is  strength  and  vitality  in  this  air ;  breathe  it  in 
deeply.     ^ATiat  joy  to  be  alive  !" 

She  came  near,  and  their  horses  held  quiet  commamion, 
putting  their  noses  together  contentedly.  Cassandra 
lifted  her  head  high  and  turned  her  face  toward  the  bil- 
lowed mountains,  and  did  what  Thryng  had  not  known 
her  to  do,  what  he  had  wondered  if  she  ever  did  —  She 
laughed  —  laughed  aloud  and  joyously. 

"Why  do  you  laugh  ?"  he  asked,  and  laughed  with  her. 

"I'm  that  glad  all  at  once.     I  don't  know  why.     If  the 


An  Errand  of  Mercy  93 

mountains  could  feel  and  be  glad,  seems  like  they'd  be 
laughing  now  away  off  there  by  the  sea.  I  wonder  will 
I  ever  see  the  ocean." 

"Of  course  you  will.  You  are  not  going  to  live  always 
shut  up  in  these  mountains.  Laugh  again.  Let  me  hear 
you." 

But  she  turned  on  him  startled  eyes.  *'I  clean  forgot 
that  poor  man  down  below,  so  like  to  die  I  am  'most  afraid 
to  get  back  there.  Look  down.  It  must  have  been  in  a 
place  like  that  where  Christian  slew  Apollyon  in  the  dark 
valley,  like  I  was  reading  to  Hoyle  last  night." 

*'Does  he  live  down  in  there  .^     I  mean  the  man  Irwin 

—  not  Apollyon.     He's  dead,  for  Christian  slew  him." 
"Yes,  the  Irwins  live  there.     See  yonder  that  spot  of 

cleared  red  ground  ?  There's  their  place.  The  house  is 
hid  by  the  dark  trees  nigh  the  red  spot.  Can  you  make 
it  out?" 

"Yes,  but  I  call  that  far." 

"  It's  easy  riding.     Shall  we  go  on  .^^     I'm  that  frightened 

—  we'd  better  hurry." 

"Is  that  your  way  when  you  are  afraid  to  do  a  thing; 
you  hurry  to  do  it  all  the  more  ?  " 

"Seems  like  we  have  to  a  heap  of  times.  Seems  like  if 
I  were  only  a  man,  I  could  be  brave,  but  being  a  girl  so,  it 
is  right  hard." 

She  started  her  horse  to  a  gallop,  and  side  by  side  they 
hurried  over  the  level  top  of  the  ridge  —  to  Thryng  an 
exhilarating  moment,  to  her  a  speeding  toward  some 
terrible,  unknown  trial. 


CHAPTER  X 

IN    WHICH    CASSANDRA    AND    DAVID    VISIT    THE    HOME    OP 

DECATUR    IRWIN 

Soon  the  way  became  steep  and  difficult  and  the  path 
so  narrow  they  were  forced  to  go  single  file.  Then  Cas- 
sandra led  and  David  followed.  They  passed  no  dwellings, 
and  even  the  little  home  to  which  they  were  going  was 
lost  to  view.  He  wondered  if  she  were  not  weary,  remem- 
bering that  she  had  been  over  the  distance  twice  before 
that  day,  and  begged  her,  as  he  had  done  when  they  set 
out,  to  allow  him  to  carry  the  basket,  but  still  she  would 
not. 

*'I  never  think  of  it.  I  often  carry  things  this  way. 
— We  have  to  here  in  the  mountains."  She  glanced  back 
at  him  and  smiled.  *'I  reckon  you  find  it  hard  because 
you  are  not  used  to  living  like  we  do;  we're  soon  there 
now,  see  yonder  ?  " 

A  turn  in  the  path  brought  them  in  sight  of  the  cabin, 
set  in  its  bare,  desolate  patch  of  red  soil.  About  the  door 
swarmed  unkempt  children  of  all  sizes,  as  bees  hang  out 
of  an  over-filled  hive,  the  largest  not  more  than  twelve 
years  old,  and  the  youngest  carried  on  the  mother's  arm. 
It  was  David's  first  visit  to  one  of  the  poorest  of  the  moun- 
tain homes,  and  he  surveyed  the  scene  before  him  with 
dismay. 

Below  the  house  was  a  spring,  and  there,  suspended  from 
the  long-reaching  branch  of  a  huge  beech  tree,  now  leaf- 
less and  bare,  a  great,  black  iron  pot  swung  by  a  chain 
over  a  fire  built  on  the  ground  among  a  heap  of  stones. 
On  a  board  at  one  side  lay  wet,  gray  garments,  twisted 
in  knots  as  they  had  been  wrung  out  of  the  soapy  water. 
The  woman  had  been  washing,  and  the  vapor  was  rising 
from  the  black  pot  of  boiling  suds,  but,  seeing  their  ap- 
proach, she  had  gone  to  her  door,  her  babe  on  her  arm 
and  the  other  children  trooping  at  her  heels  and  clinging 
to  her  skirts.     They  peered  up  from  under  frowzy,  over- 

94 


Cassandra  and  David  95 

hanging  locks  of  hair  like  a  group  of  ragged,  bedraggled 
Scotch  terriers. 

The  mother  herself  seemed  scarcely  older  than  the  oldest, 
and  Thryng  regarded  her  with  amazement  when  he  noticed 
her  infantile,  undeveloped  face  and  learned  that  she  had 
brought  into  the  world  all  those  who  clustered  about  her. 
His  amazement  grew  as  he  entered  the  dark  little  cabin 
and  saw  that  they  must  all  eat  and  sleep  in  its  one  small 
room,  which  they  seemed  to  fill  to  overflowing  as  they 
crowded  in  after  him,  accompanied  by  three  lean  hounds, 
who  sniffed  suspiciously  at  his  leggings. 

Far  in  the  darkest  corner  lay  the  father  on  a  pallet  of 
corn-husks  covered  with  soiled  bedclothing.  The  windows 
w^ere  mere  holes  in  the  walls,  unglazed,  unframed,  and 
closed  at  night  or  in  bad  weather  by  wooden  shutters, 
when  the  room  was  lighted  only  by  the  flames  from  the 
now  black  and  empty  fireplace.  Here,  while  mother 
and  children  were  out  by  '*the  branch'*  washing,  the 
injured  man  lay  alone,  stoically  patient,  declaring  that 
his  "laig"  was  some  better,  that  he  did  not  feel  '*so  much 
misery  in  hit  as  yesterday.'* 

Thryng  had  seen  much  squalor  and  wretchedness,  but 
never  before  in  a  home  in  the  country  where  women  and 
children  were  to  be  found.  For  a  moment  he  looked 
helplessly  at  the  silent,  staring  group,  and  at  the  man,  who 
feebly  tried  to  indicate  to  his  wife  the  extending  of  some 
courtesy  to  the  stranger. 

"Set  a  cheer,  Polly,"  he  said  weakly,  offering  his  great 
hand.  "You  are  right  welcome,  suh.  Are  you  visitin'  these 
parts  ?'* 

"This  is  the  doctor  I  was  telling  you  about,  Cate, — 
Doctor  Thryng.  I  begged  him  to  come  up  and  see  could 
he  do  anything  for  you,"  said  Cassandra.  Then  she  urged 
the  woman  to  go  back  to  her  work  and  take  the  children 
with  her.  "Doctor  and  I  will  look  after  your  old  man 
awhile."  She  succeeded  in  clearing  the  place  of  all  but  one 
lean  hound,  who  continued  to  stand  by  his  master  and 
lick  his  hand,  whining  presciently,  and  one  or  two  of  the 
children,  who  lingered  around  the  door  to  peer  in  cu- 
riously at  the  doctor. 

A  shutter  near  the  bed  was  tightly  closed  and,  in  strug- 
gling to  open  it,  Cassandra  discovered  it  was  broken  at  the 


96  The  Mountain  Girl 

hinges  and  had  been  nailed  in  place.  David  flew  to  hei 
assistance  and,  wrenching  out  the  nails,  tore  it  free,  let- 
ting in  a  flood  of  light  upon  the  wretchedness  around  them. 
Then  he  turned  his  attention  to  the  patient,  a  man  of 
powerful  frame,  but  lean  almost  to  emaciation,  who 
w^atched  the  young  physician's  face  silently  with  widely 
opened  blue  eyes,  their  pale  color  intensified  by  the  sur- 
rounding shock  of  matted,  curling,  vividly  red  hair  and 
beard. 

It  required  but  a  few  moments  to  ascertain  that  the 
man's  condition  was  indeed  critical.  Cassandra  had  gone 
out  and  now  returned  with  her  hands  full  of  dry  pine 
sticks.  Bending  on  one  knee  before  the  empty  fireplace, 
she  arranged  them  and  hung  a  kettle  over  them  full  of 
fresh  water.  David  turned  and  watched  her  light  the 
fire. 

"Good.  We  shall  need  hot  water  immediately.  How 
long  since  you  have  eaten  ?  *'  he  asked  the  man. 

"He  hain't  eat  nothing  all  day,"  said  the  wife,  who 
had  returned  and  again  stood  in  the  door  with  all  her 
flock,  gazing  at  him.  Then  the  woman  grew  plaintively 
garrulous  about  the  trouble  she  had  had  "doin'  fer  him," 
and  begged  David  to  tell  her  "could  he  he'p  'im."  At 
last  Thryng  put  a  hurried  end  to  her  talk  by  saying  he 
could  do  nothing  —  nothing  at  all  for  her  old  man,  un- 
less she  took  herself  and  the  children  all  away.  She 
looked  terror-stricken,  and  her  mouth  drew  together  in 
a  stubborn,  resentful  line  as  if  in  some  way  he  had  pre- 
cipitated ill  luck  upon  them  by  his  coming.  Cassandra 
at  once  took  her  basket  and  walked  out  toward  the  stream, 
and  they  all  followed,  leaving  David  and  the  father  in 
sole  possession  of  the  place. 

Then  he  turned  to  the  bed  and  began  a  kindly  explana- 
tion. He  fourxi  the  man  more  intelligent  and  much 
more  tractable  than  the  woman,  but  it  was  hard  to  make 
him  believe  that  he  must  inevitably  lose  either  his  life 
or  his  foot,  and  that  they  had  not  an  hour  —  not  a  half 
hour  —  to  spare,  but  must  decide  at  once.  David's 
manner,  gentle,  but  firmly  urgent,  at  last  succeeded.  The 
big  man  broke  down  and  wept  weakly,  but  yielded;  only 
he  stipulated  that  his  wife  must  not  be  told. 

"No,  no  !     She  and  the  children  must  be  kept  away; 


Cassandra  and  David  97 

but  I  need  help.  Is  there  no  one  —  no  man  whom  we  can 
get  to  come  here  quickly  ?  " 

"They  is  nobody  —  naw  —  I  reckon  not." 

David  was  distressed,  but  he  searched  about  until  he 
found  an  old  battered  pail  in  which  to  prepare  his  anti- 
septic, and  busied  himself  in  replenishing  the  fire  and 
boiling  the  water ;  all  the  time  his  every  move  was  watched 
by  the  hound  and  the  pathetic  blue  eyes  of  his  master. 

Soon  Cassandra  returned,  to  David's  great  relief,  alone. 
She  smiled  as  she  looked  in  his  face,  and  spoke  quietly : 
"I  told  her  to  take  the  children  and  gather  dock  and 
mullein  leaves  and  such  like  to  make  tea  for  her  old  man, 
and  if  she'd  stay  awhile,  I'd  look  after  him  and  have  supper 
for  them  when  they  got  back.  Is  there  anything  I  can  do 
now .? '; 

David  was  troubled  indeed,  but  what  could  he  do  ? 
He  explained  his  need  of  her  quickly,  in  low  tones,  out- 
side the  door.  *'I  believe  you  are  strong  and  brave  and 
can  do  it  as  well  as  a  man,  but  I  hate  to  ask  it  of  you. 
There  is  not  time  to  wait.     It  must  be  done  to-day,  now." 

"I'll  help  you,"  she  said  simply,  and  walked  into  the 
hut.  She  had  become  deadly  pale,  and  he  followed  her 
and  placed  his  fingers  on  her  pulse,  holding  her  hand  and 
looking  down  in  her  eyes. 

"You  trust  me.^^"  he  asked. 

"Oh,  yes.     I  must." 

"Yes  —  you  must  —  dear  child.  You  are  all  right. 
Don't  be  troubled,  but  just  think  we  are  trying  to  save 
his  life.     Look  at  me  now,  and  take  in  all  I  say." 

Then  he  placed  her  with  her  back  to  his  work,  taught 
her  how  to  count  the  man's  pulse  and  to  give  the  ether; 
but  the  patient  demurred.     He  would  not  take  it. 

"Naw,  I  kin  stand  hit.     Go  ahead.  Doctor." 

"See  here.  Gate  Irwin.  You  are  bound  to  do  as  Doctor 
Thryng  says  or  die,"  she  said,  bending  over  him.  "Take 
this,  and  I'll  sit  by  you  every  minute  and  never  take 
my  hand  off  yours.  Stop  tossing.  There  !  "  He  obeyed 
her,  and  she  sat  rigidly  still  and  waited. 

The  moments  passed  in  absolute  silence.  Her  heart 
pounded  in  her  breast  and  she  grew  cold,  but  never  took 
her  eyes  from  the  still,  deathlike  face  before  her.  In 
her  heart  she  was  praying  —  praying  to  be  strong  enough 


98  The  Mountain  Girl 

to  endure  the  horror  of  it  —  not  to  faint  nor  fall  —  until 
at  last  it  seemed  to  her  that  she  had  turned  to  stone  in  her 
place;  but  all  the  time  she  could  feel  the  faintly  beating 
pulse  beneath  her  fingers,  and  kept  repeating  David's 
words:  "We  are  trying  to  save  his  life  —  we  are  trying 
to  save  his  life." 

David  finished.  Moving  rapidly  about,  he  washed,  cov- 
ered, and  carried  away,  and  set  all  in  order  so  that  noth- 
ing betrayed  his  grewsome  task.  Then  he  came  to  her 
and  took  both  her  cold  hands  in  his  warm  ones  and  led 
her  to  the  door.  She  swayed  and  walked  weakly.  He 
supported  hfer  with  his  arm  and,  once  out  in  the  sweet 
air,  she  quickly  recovered.  He  praised  her  warmly, 
eagerly,  taking  her  hands  in  his,  and  for  the  first  time, 
as  the  faint  rose  crept  into  her  cheeks,  he  felt  her  to  be 
moved  by  his  words ;  but  she  only  smiled  as  she  drew  her 
hands  aw^ay  and  turned  toward  the  house. 

"They'll  be  back  directly,  and  I  promised  to  have 
something  for  them  to  eat." 

"Then  I'll  help  you,  for  our  man  is  coming  out  all 
right  now,  and  I  feel  —  if  he  can  have  any  kind  of  care  — 
he  will  live." 

The  sky  had  become  overcast  with  heavy  clouds  and 
the  wind  had  risen,  blowing  cold  from  the  north.  David 
replaced  the  shutter  he  had  torn  off  and  mended  the  fire 
with  fuel  he  found  scattered  about  the  yard;  while 
Cassandra  swept  and  set  the  place  in  order  and  the  re- 
suscitated patient  looked  about  a  room  neater  and 
more  homelike  than  he  had  ever  slept  in  before.  Cas- 
sandra searched  out  a  few  articles  with  which  to  prepare  a 
meal  —  the  usual  food  of  the  mountain  poor  —  salt  pork, 
and  corn-meal  mixed  with  water  and  salt  and  baked  in  the 
ashes.  David  watched  her  as  she  moved  about  the  dark 
cabin,  lighted  only  by  the  fitful  flames  of  the  fireplace, 
to  perform  those  gracious,  homely  tasks,  and  would 
have  helped  her,  but  he  could  not. 

At  last  the  woman  and  her  brood  came  streaming  in, 
and  Cassandra  and  the  doctor  were  glad  to  escape  into 
the  outer  air.  He  tried  to  make  the  mother  understand 
his  directions  as  to  the  care  of  her  husband,  but  her  pas- 
sive "Yas,  suh"  did  not  reassure  him  that  his  wishes 
would  be  carried  out,  and  his  hopes  for  the  man's  recovery 


Cassandra  and  David  99 

grew  less  as  he  realized  the  conditions  of  the  home.  After 
riding  a  short  distance,  he  turned  to  Cassandra. 

"Won't  you  go  back  and  make  her  understand  that  he 
is  to  be  left  absolutely  alone  ?  Scare  her  into  making  the 
children  keep  away  from  his  bed,  and  not  climb  into  it. 
You  made  him  do  as  I  wished,  with  only  a  word,  and 
maybe  you  can  do  something  with  her.     I  can't." 

She  turned  back,  and  David  watched  her  at  the  door 
talking  with  the  woman,  who  came  out  to  her  and  handed 
her  a  bundle  of  something  tied  in  a  meal  sack.  He  won- 
dered what  it  might  be,  and  Cassandra  explained. 

"These  are  the  yarbs  I  sent  her  and  the  children  aftah. 
I  didn't  know  how  to  rid  the  cabin  of  them  without  I 
sent  for  something,  and  now  I  don't  know  what  to  do 
with  these.  We  —  we're  obliged  to  use  them  some  way." 
She  hesitated  —  "I  reckon  I  didn't  do  right  telling  her 
that  —  do  you  guess  "^  I  had  to  make  out  like  you  needed 
them  and  had  sent  back  for  them  ;  it  —  it  wouldn't  do 
to  mad  her  —  not  one  of  her  sort."  Her  head  drooped 
with  shame  and  she  added  pleadingly,  "Mother  has  used 
these  plants  for  making  tea  for  sick  folks  —  but  —  " 

He  rode  to  her  side  and  lifted  the  unwieldy  load  to  his 
own  horse,  "Be  ye  wise  as  a  serpent  and  harmless  as  a 
dove,"  he  said,  laughing. 

"How  do  you  mean  "^  " 

"You  were  wise.  You  did  right  where  I  would  only  have 
dove  harm  and  been  brutal.  Can't  you  see  these  have 
already  served  their  purpose  ?" 

"I  don't  understand." 

"You  told  her  to  get  them  because  you  wished  to  make 
her  think  she  was  doing  something  for  her  husband, 
didn't  you  ^  And  you  couldn't  say  to  her  that  she  would 
help  most  by  taking  herself  out  of  the  way,  could  you  .^  She 
could  not  understand,  and  so  they  have  served  their  pur- 
pose as  a  means  of  getting  her  quietly  and  harmlessly 
away  so  we  could  properly  do  our  work." 

"But  I  didn't  say  so  —  not  rightly;  I  made  her 
think  —  " 

"Never  mind  what  you  said  or  made  her  think.  You 
did  right,  God  knows.  We  are  all  made  to  work  out 
£jood  —  often  when  we  think  erroneously,  just  as  you 
made  her  uncomprehendingly  do  what  she  ought.     If 


100  The  Mountain  Girl 

ever  she  grows  wise  enough  to  understand,  well  and  good  ^ 
if  not,  no  harm  is  done.'* 

Cassandra  listened,  but  doubtingly.  At  last  she  stopped 
her  horse.  *'If  you  can't  use  them,  I  feel  like  I  ought  to 
go  back  and  explain,"  she  said.  Her  face  gleamed  whitely 
out  of  the  gathering  dusk,  and  he  saw  her  shiver  in  the  cold 
and  bitter  wind.  He  was  more  warmly  dressed  than  she, 
and  still  he  felt  it  cut  through  him  icily. 

'"No.  You  shall  not  go  back  one  step.  It  would  be  a 
useless  waste  of  your  time  and  strength.  Later,  if  you 
still  feel  that  you  must,  you  can  explain.     Come." 

She  yielded,  touched  her  horse  lightly  with  her  whip,  and 
they  hurried  on.  The  night  was  rapidly  closing  in,  the 
thick,  dark  shadows  creeping  up  from  the  gorges  below  as 
they  climbed  the  rugged  steep  they  had  descended  three 
hours  earlier.  They  picked  their  way  in  silence,  she  ahead, 
and  he  following  closely.  He  wondered  what  might  be 
her  thoughts,  and  if  she  had  inherited,  along  with  much 
else  that  he  could  perceive,  the  Puritan  conscience  which 
had  possibly  driven  some  ancestor  here  to  live  undisturbed 
of  his  precious  scruples. 

When  they  emerged  at  last  on  the  level  ridge  where  she 
fiad  so  joyously  laughed  out,  Thryng  hurried  forward  and 
again  rode  at  her  side.  She  sat  wearily  now,  holding  the 
reins  with  chilled  hands.  Had  she  forgotten  the  happy 
moment  ?  He  had  not.  The  wind  blew  more  shrewdly 
past  them,  and  a  few  drops  of  rain,  large  and  icy  cold, 
struck  their  faces. 

"Put  these  on  your  hands,  please,"  he  begged,  pulling 
off  his  thick  gloves ;  but  she  would  not. 

He  reached  for  the  bridle  of  her  horse  and  drew  him 
nearer,  then  caught  her  cold  hands  and  began  chafing 
them,  first  one  and  then  the  other.  Then  he  slipped  the 
warm  gloves  over  them.  "Wear  them  a  little  while  to 
please  me,"  he  urged.  "You  have  no  coat,  and  mine  is 
thick  and  warm." 

Suddenly  he  became  aware  that  she  was  and  had  been 
silently  weeping,  and  he  was  filled  with  anxiety  for  her, 
so  brave  she  had  been,  so  tired  she  must  be  —  worn  out  — 
poor  little  heart ! 

"Are  you  so  tired  ?"  he  asked. 

"Oh,  no,  no." 


Cassandra  and  David  101 

"Won't  you  tell  me  what  troubles  you?  Let  me  put 
this  over  your  shoulders  to  keep  off  the  rain." 

"Oh,  no,  no  !"  she  cried,  as  he  began  to  remove  his  coat. 
"You  need  it  a  heap  more  than  I.  You  have  been  sick, 
and  I  am  well.'* 

"Please  wear  it.     I  will  walk  a  little  to  keep  warm." 

"Oh  !  I  can't.  I'm  not  cold,  Doctor  Thryng.  It  isn't 
that." 

He  became  imperative  through  anxiety.  "Then  tell  me 
what  it  is,"  he  said. 

"I  can't  stop  thinking  of  Decatur  Irwin.  I  can  feel  you 
working  there  yet,  and  seems  like  I  never  will  forget.  I 
keep  going  over  it  and  over  it  and  can't  stop.  Doctor, 
are  you  sure  —  sure  —  it  was  right  for  us  to  do  what  we 
did?" 

"Poor  child  !  It  was  terrible  for  you,  and  you  were  fine, 
you  know  —  fine;  you  are  a  heroine  —  you  are  — " 

"I  don't  care  for  me.  It  isn't  me.  Was  it  right. 
Doctor  ?     Was  there  no  other  way  ?  "  she  wailed. 

"As  far  as  human  knowledge  goes,  there  was  no  other 
wa3^  Listen,  Miss  Cassandra,  I  have  been  where  such 
accidents  were  frequent.  Many  a  man's  leg  have  I  taken 
off.  Surgery  is  my  work  in  life  —  don't  be  horrified.  I 
chose  it  because  I  wished  to  be  a  saver  of  life  and  a  helper 
of  my  fellows."  She  was  shivering  more  from  the  nervous 
reaction  than  from  the  cold,  and  to  David  it  seemed  as  if 
she  were  trying  to  draw  farther  away  from  him. 

"Don't  shrink  from  me.  There  are  so  many  in  the  world 
to  kill  and  wound,  some  there  must  be  to  mend  where  it  is 
possible.  I  saw  in  a  moment  that  your  intuition  had  led 
you  rightly,  and  soon  I  knew  what  must  be  done;  I  only 
hope  we  were  not  too  late.  Don't  cry,  Miss  Cassandra. 
It  makes  me  feel  such  a  brute  to  have  put  you  through 
it." 

"No,  no.  You  were  right  kind  and  good.  I'm  only 
crying  now  because  I  can't  stop." 

"There,  there,  child  !  We'll  ride  a  little  faster.  I  must 
get  you  home  and  do  something  for  you."  He  spoke  out 
of  the  tenderness  of  his  heart  toward  her. 

But  soon  they  were  again  descending,  and  the  horses, 
careful  for  their  own  safety  if  not  for  their  riders',  continued 
slowly  and  stumblingly  to  pick  their  footing  in  the  darkness. 


102  The  Mountain  Girl 

Now  the  rain  began  to  beat  more  fiercely,  and  before  they 
reached  the  Fall  Place  they  were  wet  to  the  skin. 

David  feared  neither  the  wetting  nor  the  cold  for  him- 
self;  only  for  her  in  her  utter  weariness  was  he  anxious. 
She  would  help  him  stable  the  horses  and  led  away  one 
while  he  led  the  other,  but  once  in  the  house  he  took 
matters  in  his  own  hands  peremptorily.  He  rebuilt  the 
fire  and  himself  removed  her  wet  garments  and  her  shoes. 
She  was  too  exhausted  to  resist.  Following  the  old  moth- 
er's directions,  he  found  woollen  blankets  and,  wrapping 
her  about,  he  took  her  up  like  a  baby  and  laid  her  on  her 
bed.  Then  he  brewed  her  a  hot  milk  punch  and  made  her 
take  it. 

"You  need  this  more  than  I,  Doctah.  If  you'll  just 
take  some  yourself,  as  soon  as  I  can  I'll  make  your  bed 
in  the  loom  shed  again,  and  — " 

*' Drink  it;  drink  it  and  go  to  sleep.  Yes,  yes.  I'll  have 
some,  too.'* 

**Cass,  you  lie  still  and  do  as  doctah  says.  You  nigh 
about  dade,  child.  If  only  I  could  get  off'n  this  bed  an' 
walk  a  leetle,  I'd  'a'  had  your  place  all  ready  fer  ye,  Doctah. 
The'  is  a  featheh  bade  up  garret,  if  ye  could  tote  hit  down 
an'  drap  on  the  floor  here  fer  — " 

David  laughed  cheerily.  "Why,  this  is  nothing  for  me." 
He  stood  turning  himself  about  to  dry  his  clothing  on  all 
sides  before  the  blaze.  "As  soon  as  Miss  Cassandra  closes 
her  eyes  and  sleeps,  I  w^ill  look  after  myself.  It's  a  shame 
to  bring  all  these  wet  things  in  here,  I  say  !  " 

"You  are  a-steamin'  like  you  are  a  steam  engine,"  piped 
little  Hoyle,  peering  at  him  over  his  mother's  shoulder 
from  the  far  corner  of  her  bed. 

"You  lie  down  and  go  to  sleep  again,  youngster,"  said 
David. 

x^Lnd  gradually  they  all  fell  asleep,  while  Thryng  sat  long 
before  the  fire  and  pondered  until  Cassandra  slept.  Once  and 
again  a  deep  quivering  sigh  trembled  through  her  parted 
lips,  as  he  watched  beside  her.  A  warm  rose  hue  played 
over  her  still  features,  cast  by  the  dancing  red  flames,  and 
her  hair  in  a  dishevelled  mass  swept  across  the  pillow  and 
down  to  the  floor.  At  last  the  rain  ceased ;  warmed  and 
dried,  Thryng  stole  away  from  the  silent  house  and  rode 
back  to  his  own  cabin. 


CHAPTER   XI 

IN  WHICH  SPRING  COMES  TO  THE  MOUNTAINS,  AND  CAS- 
SANDRA  TELLS   DAVID    OF   HER   FATHER 

Ere  long  such  a  spring  as  David  had  never  dreamed  of 
swept  up  the  mountain,  with  a  charm  so  surpassing  and 
transcending  any  imagined  beauty  that  he  was  filled  with 
a  sort  of  ecstasy.  He  was  constantly  out  upon  the  hills 
revelling  in  the  lavish  bounty  of  earth  and  sky,  of  rushing 
waters,  and  all  the  subtile  changes  in  growing  things, 
as  if  at  last  he  had  been  clasped  to  the  heart  of  nature. 
He  visited  the  cabins  wherever  he  was  called,  and  when 
there  was  need  for  Cassandra's  ministrations  he  often 
took  her  with  him ;  thus  they  fell  naturally  into  good 
camaraderie.  Thus,  also,  quite  as  naturally,  Cassandra's 
speech  became  more  correct  and  fluent,  even  while  it  lost 
none  of  its  lingering  delicacy  of  intonation. 

David  provided  her  with  books,  as  he  had  promised 
himself.  Sometimes  he  brought  them  down  to  her,  and 
they  read  together ;  sometimes  he  left  them  with  her  and 
she  read  them  by  herself  eagerly  and  happily;  but  so  busy 
was  she  that  she  found  very  little  time  to  be  with  him. 
Not  only  did  all  the  work  of  the  household  fall  on  her, 
but  the  weaving,  which  her  mother  had  done  heretofore, 
and  the  care  of  the  animals,  which  had  been  done  by 
Frale. 

The  life  she  had  hoped  to  lead  and  the  good  she  had 
longed  to  do  when  she  left  home  for  school,  encouraged  by 
the  bishop  and  his  wife,  she  now  resolutely  put  away  from 
her,  determined  to  lead  in  the  best  way  the  life  that  she 
knew  must  henceforth  be  hers.  She  hoped  at  least  she 
might  be  able  to  bring  the  home  place  back  to  what  it 
used  to  be  in  her  Grandfather  Caswell's  time,  and  to  this 
end  she  labored  patiently;  albeit  sadly. 

David  was  ever  aware  of  a  barrier  past  which  he  might 
never  step,  no  matter  how  merry  or  how  intimate  they 
might  seem  to  be,  and  always  about  her  a  silent  air  of 
waiting,  which  deterred  him  in  his  efforts  to  draw  her 

103 


* 


104  The  Mountain  Girl 

into  more  confidential  relations.  Yet  as  the  days  passed, 
he  became  more  interested  in  her,  influenced  by  her  near- 
ness to  him,  and  still  more  by  her  remoteness. 

Allured  and  baffled,  often  in  the  early  morning  or  late 
evening  he  would  sit  in  the  doorway  of  his  cabin,  or  out 
on  his  rock  with  his  flute,  when  his  thoughts  were  full 
of  her.  Simple,  maidenly,  and  strong,  his  heart  yearned 
toward  her,  while  instinctively  she  held  herself  aloof  in 
quiet  dignity.  Never  had  she  presented  herself  at  his 
door  unless  impelled  by  necessity.  Never  had  she  sat 
with  him  in  his  cabin  since  that  first  time  when  she  came 
to  him  so  heavy  hearted  for  Frale. 

Only  when  she  knew  him  to  be  absent  had  she  gone  to 
his  cabin  and  set  all  its  disorder  to  rights.  Then  he  would 
return  to  find  it  swept  and  cleaned,  and  sweet  with  wild 
flowers  and  pine  greenery  and  vines,  his  cooking  utensils 
washed  and  scoured,  the  floor  whitened  with  scrubbing, 
in  his  larder  newly  baked  corn-bread  and  white  beaten 
biscuits,  his  honey  jar  refilled  and  fresh  butter  pats  in 
the  spring.  Sometimes  a  brown,  earthen  jug  of  cool, 
refreshing  buttermilk  stood  on  his  table,  but  always  his 
thanks  would  be  swept  aside  with  the  words :  — 

"Mother  sent  me  up  to  see  could  I  do  anything  for  you. 
You  are  always  that  kind  and  we  can't  do  much." 

"And  you  never  come  up  when  I  am  at  home  ?  " 

"It  isn't  every  time  I  can  get  to  go  up,  I'm  that  busy 
here  most  days." 

"Only  the  days  when  I  am  absent  can  you  *get  to  go 
up'.^^"  he  would  say  teasingly.  "Don't  I  ever  deserve 
a  visit  ?" 

"Cass  don't  get  time  fer  visitin'  these  days.  Since 
Frale  lef  she  have  all  his  work  an'  hern  too  on  her,  an' 
mine  too,  only  the  leetle  help  she  gets  out'n  Hoyle,  an' 
hit  hain't  much,"  said  the  mother.  "Doctah,  don't  ye 
guess  I  can  get  up  an'  try  walkin'  a  leetle  ?  " 

"If  you  will  promise  me  you  will  only  try  it  when  I  am 
here  to  help  you,  I  will  take  off  the  weight,  and  we'll  see 
what  you  can  do  to-day." 

Cassandra  loved  to  watch  David  attend  on  her  mother, 
so  tender  was  he ;  and  he  adopted  a  playful  manner  that 
always  dispelled  her  pessimism  and  left  her  smiling  and 
talkative.     Ere  he  was  aware,  also,  he  made  a  place  for 


Cassandra  tells  of  her  Father  105 

himself  in  Cassandra's  heart  when  he  became  interested 
in  the  case  of  her  Httle  brother,  and  attempted  gradually 
to  overcome  his  deformity. 

Every  morning  when  the  child  climbed  to  his  eyrie  and 
brought  his  supply  of  milk,  David  took  him  in  and  gently, 
out  of  his  knowledge  and  skill,  gave  him  systematic  care, 
and  taught  him  how  to  help  himself;  but  he  soon  saw 
that  a  more  strenuous  course  would  be  the  only  way  to 
bring  permanent  relief,  or  surely  the  trouble  would  in- 
crease. 

'*What  did  Doctor  Hoyle  say  about  it?"  he  asked  one 
day. 

"He  wa'n't  that-a-way  when  doctah  war  here  last. 
Hit  war  nigh  on  five  year  ago  that  come  on  him.  He  had 
fevah,  an'  a  right  smart  o'  times  when  we  thought  he  war 
a-gettin'  bettah  he  jes'  went  back,  ontwell  he  began  to 
kind  o'  draw  sideways  this-a-way,  an'  he  hain't  nevah 
been  straight  sence,  an'  he  has  been  that  sickly,  too. 
When  doctah  saw  him  last,  he  war  nigh  three  year  old 
an'  straight  as  they  make  'em,  an'  fat  —  you  couldn't 
see  a  bone  in  him." 

David  pondered  a  moment.  "Suppose  you  give  him 
to  me  awhile,"  he  said.  "Let  him  live  with  me  in  my 
cabin  —  eat  there,  sleep  there  —  everything,  and  we'll 
see  what  can  be  done  for  him." 

"I'm  wnllin',  more'n  willin',  when  only  I  can  get  to  help 
Cass  some.  Hoyle,  he's  a  heap  o'  help,  with  me  not  able 
to  do  a  lick.  He  can  milk  nigh  as  well  as  she  can,  an'  tote 
in  water,  an'  feed  the  chick'ns  an'  th'  pig,  an'  rid'n'  to 
mill  fer  meal — yas,  he's  a  heap  o' help.  Cass,  she  got  to 
get  on  with  th'  weavin'.  We  promised  bed  kivers  an'  such 
fer  INIiss  INIayhew.  She  sells  'em  fer  ladies  'at  comes  to 
the  hotel  in  summah.  We  nevah  would  have  a  cent  o' 
money  in  hand  these  days  'thout  that,  only  what  chick'ns 
'nd  aigs  she  can  raise  fer  the  hotel,  too.  Hit's  only  in 
summah.     I  don't  rightly  see  how  we  can  spare  Hoyle." 

"\Miere's  Miss  Cassandra  now?"  he  asked,  onlv  more 
determined  on  his  course  the  more  he  was  hampered  by 
circumstances. 

"She's  in  the  loom  shed  weavin'.  I  throwed  on  the 
warp  fer  a  blue  and  white  bed  kiver  'fore  I  war  hurt,  an' 
she  hain't  had  time  to  more'n  half  finish  hit.     I  war  helpin* 


106  The  Mountain  Girl 

to  get  the  weavin'  done  whilst  she  war  at  school  this  winter, 
an'  come  spring  she  war  'lowin'  to  come  back  an'  help 
Frale  with  the  plantin'  an'  makin'  crap  fer  next  year. 
Here  in  the  mountains  we-uns  have  to  be  forehanded,  an' 
here  I  be  an'  can't  crawl  scarcely  yet." 

After  the  thrifty  soul  had  taken  a  few  steps,  instead  of 
realizing  her  good  fortune  in  being  able  to  take  any,  she 
was  bitterly  disappointed  to  find  that  weeks  must  still 
pass  ere  she  could  walk  by  herself.  She  was  seated  on 
her  little  porch  where  David  had  helped  her,  looking  out 
on  the  growing  things  and  the  blossoming  spring  all  about 
—  a  sight  to  make  the  heart  glad ;  but  she  saw  only  that 
the  time  was  passing,  and  it  would  soon  be  too  late  to  make 
a  crop  that  year. 

She  was  such  a  neat,  self-respecting  old  woman  as  she 
sat  there.  Her  work-worn  old  hands  were  not  idle,  for 
she  turned  and  mended  Hoyle's  funny  little  trousers, 
home-made,  with  suspenders  attached. 

"I  don't  know  what-all  we  can  do  ef  we  can't  make  a 
crap.  We  won't  have  no  corn  nor  nothin',  an'  nothin'  to 
feed  stock,  let  alone  we-uns.  We'll  be  in  a  fix  just  like 
all  the  poor  white  trash,  me  not  able  to  do  a  lick." 
.  David  came  and  sat  beside  her  a  few  moments  and  said 
a  great  many  comforting  things,  and  when  he  rose  to  go 
the  world  had  taken  on  a  new  aspect  for  her  eyes  —  bright, 
dark  eyes,  looking  up  at  him  with  a  gleam  of  hope. 

"I  believe  ye,"  she  said.  "We'll  do  anything  you  say, 
Doctah." 

Thryng  walked  out  past  the  loom  shed  and  paused  to 
look  in  on  the  young  girl  as  she  sat  swaying  rhythmically, 
throwing  the  shuttles  with  a  sweep  of  her  arm,  and  draw- 
ing the  great  beam  toward  her  with  steady  beat,  driving 
the  threads  in  place,  and  shifting  the  veil  of  warp  stretched 
before  her  with  a  sure  touch  of  her  feet  upon  the  treadles, 
all  her  lithe  body  intent  and  atune.  It  seemed  to  him  as 
he  sat  himself  on  the  step  to  watch,  that  music  must  come 
from  the  flow  of  her  action.  The  noise  of  the  loom  pre- 
vented her  hearing  his  approach,  and  silently  he  watched 
and  waited,  fascinated  in  seeing  the  fabric  grow  under 
her  hand. 

As  silently  she  worked  on,  and  slowly,  even  as  the  pat- 
tern took  shape  and  became  plain  before  her,  his  thoughts 


4^\ 


It  see7ned  to  hint  that 
nut  sic  must  come  fro/n  the 
floiv  of  he7' action.     Page  \  06. 


^ 


Cassandra  tells  of  her  Father  107 

grew  and  took  definite  shape  also,  until  he  became  filled 
with  a  set  purpose.  He  would  not  disturb  her  now  nor 
make  her  look  around.  It  was  enough  just  to  watch  her 
in  her  sweet  serious  unconsciousness,  with  the  flush  of 
exercise  on  her  cheeks  as  he  could  see  when  she  slightly 
turned  her  head  with  every  throw  of  the  shuttle. 

When  at  last  she  rose,  he  saw  a  look  of  care  and  weari- 
ness on  her  face  that  disturbed  him.  He  sprang  up  and 
came  to  her.  She  little  dreamed  how  long  he  had  been 
there. 

"Please  don't  go.  Stay  here  and  talk  to  me  a  moment. 
Your  mother  is  all  right ;  I  have  just  been  with  her.  May 
I  examine  what  you  have  been  doing  ?  It  is  very  interest- 
ing to  me,  you  know."  He  made  her  show  him  all  the 
manner  of  her  work  and  drew  her  on  to  tell  him  of  the 
different  patterns  her  mother  had  learned  from  her  grand- 
mother and  had  taught  her. 

"They  don't  do  much  on  the  hand-looms  now  in  the 
mountains,  but  Miss  Mayhew  at  the  hotel  last  summer 
—  I  told  you  about  her  —  sold  some  of  mother's  work 
up  North,  and  I  promised  more,  but  I'm  afraid  —  I  don't 
guess  I  can  get  it  all  done  now." 

"You  are  tired.  Sit  here  on  the  step  awhile  with  me 
and  rest.  I  want  to  talk  to  you  a  little,  and  I  want 
you  alone."  She  looked  hesitatingly  toward  the  declin- 
ing sun.  He  took  her  hand  and  led  her  to  the  door. 
"  Can't  you  give  me  a  few,  a  very  few  moments  ?  You 
hold  me  off  and  won't  let  me  say  what  I  often  have  in 
mind  to  ask  you."  She  sat  beside  him  where  he  placed 
her  and  looked  wonderingly  into  his  face,  but  not  in  the 
least  as  if  she  feared  what  his  question  might  be,  or  as  if 
she  suspected  anything  personal.  "You  know  it's  not 
right  that  this  sort  of  thing  should  go  on  indefinitely?'* 

"I  don't  know  what  sort  of  thing  you  mean."  She 
lifted  grave,  wide  eyes  to  his  —  those  clear  gray  eyes  — 
and  his  heart  admonished  him  that  he  had  begun  to  love 
to  look  into  their  blue  and  green  depths,  but  heed  the 
admonishment  he  would  not. 

"I  mean  working  day  in  and  day  out,  as  you  do.  You 
have  grown  much  thinner  since  I  saw  you  first,  and  look 
at  your  hands."  He  took  one  of  them  in  his  and  gently 
stroked  it.     "See  how  thin  they  are,  and  here  are  callous 


108  The  Mountain  Girl 

places.  And  you  are  stooping  over  with  weariness,  and, 
except  when  you  have  been  exercising,  your  face  is  far 
too  white." 

She  looked  off  toward  the  mountain  top  and  slowly 
drew  her  hand  from  his.  "I  must  do  it.  There  is  no  one 
else,"  she  said  in  a  low  voice. 

"But  it  can't  go  on  always  —  this  way." 

"  I  reckon  so.  Once  I  thought  —  it  might  —  be  some 
different,  but  now — "     She  waited  an  instant  in  silence. 

"But  now  — what  .^" 

"It  seems  as  if  it  must  go  on  —  like  this  way  —  always, 
as  if  I  were  chained  here  with  iron." 

"But  why?     Won't  you  tell  me  so  I  may  help  you?" 

"I  can't,"  she  said  sadly  and  with  finality.  "It  must 
be." 

He  brooded  a  moment,  clasping  his  hands  about  one 
knee  and  gazing  at  her.  "Maybe,"  he  said  at  last, 
"maybe  I  can  help  you,  even  if  you  can't  tell  me  what  is 
holding  you." 

She  smiled  a  faintly  fleeting  smile.  "Thank  you  — 
but  I  reckon  not." 

"Miss  Cassandra,  when  you  know  I  am  at  your  service, 
and  will  do  anything  you  ask  of  me,  why  do  you 
hold  something  back  from  me  ?  I  can  understand,  and 
I  may  have  ways  — " 

"It's  just  that,  suh.  Even  if  I  could  tell  you,  I  don't 
guess  you  could  understand.  Even  if  I  went  yonder 
on  the  mountain  and  cried  to  heaven  to  set  me  free,  I'd 
have  to  bide  here  and  do  the  work  that  is  mine  to  do,  as 
mother  has  done  hers,  and  her  mother  before  her." 

"But  they  did  it  contentedly  and  happily  —  because 
they  wished  it.  Your  mother  married  your  father  be- 
cause she  loved  him,  and  was  glad — " 

"Yes,  I  reckon  she  did  —  but  he  was  different.  She 
could  do  it  for  him.  He  lived  alone  —  alone.  Mother 
knew  he  did  —  she  could  understand.  It  was  like  he 
had  a  room  to  himself  high  up  on  the  mountain,  where 
she  never  could  climb,  nor  open  the  door." 

David  leaned  toward  her.  "What  do  you  see  when 
you  look  off  at  the  mountain  like  that  ?  " 

"  It's  like  I  could  see  him.  He  would  take  his  little  books 
up  there  and  walk  the  high  path.     I   never  have  showed 


Cassandra  tells  of  her  Father  109 

you  his  path.  It  was  his,  and  he  would  walk  in  it,  up  and 
down,  up  and  down,  and  read  words  I  couldn't  understand, 
reading  Hke  he  was  singing.  Sometimes  I  would  climb 
up  to  him,  and  he'd  take  me  in  his  arms  and  carry  me  like 
I  was  a  baby,  and  read.  Sometimes  he  would  sit  on  a 
bank  of  moss  under  those  trees  —  see  near  the  top  by  that 
open  spot  of  sky  a  right  dark  place  ?  There  are  no  other 
trees  like  them.  They  are  his  trees.  He  would  sit  with 
me  there  and  tell  me  the  stories  of  the  strange  words ; 
but  we  never  told  mother,  for  she  said  they  were  heathen 
and  I  mustn't  give  heed  to  him."  When  deeply  absorbed, 
she  often  lapsed  into  her  old  speech.  David  liked  it. 
He  almost  wished  she  would  never  change  it  for  his. 
"After  father  died  I  hunted  and  hunted  for  those  little 
books,  but  I  never  could  find  them." 

"  You  remember  him  so  well,  won't  you  tell  me  how  he 
looked  ?  " 

She  slowly  brought  her  eyes  down  from  the  mountain 
top  and  fixed  them  on  his  face.  "Sometimes  —  just  for 
a  minute  —  you  make  me  think  of  him  —  but  you  don't 
look  like  him.  I  never  heard  any  one  laugh  like  he  could 
laugh  —  and  with  his  eyes,  too.  He  was  tall  like  you,  and 
he  carried  his  shoulders  high  like  you  do  when  you  hurry, 
but  he  was  a  dark  man.  \Mien  he  stood  here  in  the  door 
of  the  loom  shed,  his  head  touched  the  top.  I  thought  of 
it  when  you  stood  here  a  bit  ago  and  had  to  stoop.  He 
always  did  that."  She  lifted  her  gaze  again  to  the  moun- 
tain, and  was  silent. 

"Tell  me  a  little  more  .^  Just  a  little.^  Don't  you 
remember  anything  he  said.'^" 

"He  used  to  preach,  but  I  was  too  little  to  remember 
what  he  said.  They  used  to  have  preaching  in  the  school- 
house,  and  in  winter  he  used  to  teach  there  —  when  he 
could  get  the  children  to  come.  They  had  no  books,  but 
he  marked  with  charcoal  where  they  could  all  see,  and 
showed  them  writing  and  figures ;  but  somehow  they  got 
the  idea  he  didn't  know  religion  right,  and  they  wouldn't 
go  to  hear  him  any  more.  Mother  says  it  nigh  broke 
his  heart,  for  he  fell  to  ailing  and  grew  that  thin  and  white 
he  couldn't  climb  to  his  path  any  more."  She  stopped 
and  put  her  hand  to  her  throat,  as  her  way  was.  She 
too  had  grown  white  with  the  ache  of  sorrowful  remem- 


110  The  Mountain  Girl 

brance.  He  thought  it  cruel  to  urge  her,  but  felt  impelled 
to  ask  for  more. 

"And  then?" 

"Yes.  One  day  we  were  all  alone  sitting  right  here  in 
the  loom  shed  door.  He  put  one  hand  on  my  head,  and 
then  he  put  the  other  hand  under  my  chin  and  turned 
my  face  to  look  in  his  eyes  —  so  great  and  far  —  like  they 
could  see  through  your  heart.  Seems  like  I  can  feel  the 
touch  of  his  hand  here  yet  and  hear  him  say:  'Little 
daughter,  never  be  like  the  rest.  Be  separate,  and  God 
will  send  for  you  some  day  here  on  the  mountain.  He 
will  send  for  you  on  the  mountain  top.  He  will  compass 
you  about  and  lift  you  up  and  you  shall  be  blessed.*  Then 
he  kissed  me  and  went  into  the  house.  I  could  hear  him 
still  saying  it  as  he  walked,  *  On  the  mountain  top  one  will 
come  for  you,  on  the  mountain  top.'  He  went  in  and  lay 
down,  and  I  sat  here  and  waited.  It  seemed  like  my 
heart  stood  still  waiting  for  him  to  come  back  to  me,  and 
it  must  have  been  more  than  an  hour  I  sat,  and  mother 
came  home  and  went  in  and  found  him  gone.  He  never 
spoke  again.     He  lay  there  dead." 

She  paused  and  drew  in  a  long,  sighing  breath.  "I 
have  never  said  those  words  aloud  until  now,  to  you,  but 
hundreds  of  times  when  I  look  up  on  the  mountain  I  have 
said  them  in  my  heart.  I  reckon  he  meant  I  was  to  bide 
here  until  my  time  was  come,  and  do  all  like  I  ought  to  do 
it.  I  did  think  I  could  go  to  school  and  learn  and  come 
back  and  teach  like  he  used  to,  a^id  so  keep  myself  separate 
like  he  did,  but  the  Lord  called  me  back  and  laid  a  hard 
thing  on  me,  and  I  must  do  it.  But  in  my  heart  I  can 
keep  separate  like  father  did." 

She  rose  and  stood  calmly,  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  moun- 
tain. David  stood  near  and  longed  to  touch  her  passive 
hand  —  to  lift  it  to  his  lips  —  but  forebore  to  startle  her 
soul  by  so  unusual  an  act.  For  all  she  had  given  him  a 
confidence  she  had  never  bestowed  on  another,  he  felt 
himself  held  aloof,  her  spirit  withdrawn  from  him  and  lifted 
to  the  mountain  top. 


CHAPTER  Xn 

IN  WHICH   CASSANDRA   HEARS   THE   VOICES,   AND   DAVID 

LEASES   A   FARM 

That  evening  David  sat  long  on  his  rock  holding  his 
flute  and  watching  the  thin  golden  crescent  of  the  new 
moon  floating  through  a  pale  amber  sky,  and  one  star 
near  its  tip  slowly  sliding  down  with  it  toward  the  deepen- 
ing horizon. 

The  glowing  sky  bending  to  the  purple  hilltops  —  the 
crescent  moon  and  the  lone  shining  star  —  the  evening 
breeze  singing  in  the  pines  above  him  —  the  delicate  arbu- 
tus blossoms  hiding  near  his  feet  —  the  call  of  a  bird  to 
its  mate,  and  the  faint  answering  call  from  some  distant 
shade  —  the  call  in  his  own  heart  that  as  yet  returned  to 
him  unanswered,  but  with  its  quiet  surety  of  ultimate 
response  —  the  joy  of  these  moments  perfect  in  beauty 
and  a  more  abundant  assurance  of  gladness  near  at  hand  — 
filled  him  and  lifted  his  soul  to  follow  the  star. 

Guided  by  the  unseen  hand  that  held  the  earth,  the 
crescent  moon  and  the  star  to  their  orbits,  would  he  find 
the  great  happiness  that  should  be  not  his  alone,  but  also 
for  the  eyes  uplifted  to  the  mountain  top  and  the  heart 
waiting  in  the  shadows  for  the  one  to  be  sent  ?  Ah,  surely, 
surely,  for  this  had  he  come.  He  stooped  to  the  arbutus 
blossoms  to  inhale  their  fragrance.  He  rose  and,  lifting 
his  flute  to  his  lips,  played  to  solace  his  own  waiting,  in- 
venting new  caprices  and  tossing  forth  the  notes  daringly  — 
delicately  —  rapturously  —  now  penetrating  and  strong, 
now  faintly  following  and  scarcely  heard,  uttering  a  word- 
less gladness. 

Under  the  great  holly  tree  in  the  shadows  Cassandra 
sat,  watching,  as  he  watched,  the  crescent  moon  and  the 
lone  star  sailing  in  the  pale  amber  light,  with  the  deepen- 
ing purple  mountain  hiding  the  dim  distance  below  them. 
Often  in  the  early  evening  when  her  mother  and  Hoyle 
were  sleeping,  she  would  climb  up  here  to  pray  for  Frale 
that  he  might  truly  repent,  and  for  herself  that  she  might 

111 


112  The  Mountain  Girl 

be  strong  in  her  purpose  to  give  up  all  her  cherished  hopes 
and  plans,  if  thereby  she  might  save  him  from  his  own 
wild,  reckless  self. 

It  was  here  his  boy's  passion  had  been  revealed  to  her, 
and  here  she  had  seen  him  changed  from  boy  to  man, 
filled  with  a  man's  hunger  for  her,  which  had  led  him  to 
crime,  and  held  him  unrepentant  and  glad  could  he  thus 
hold  her  his  own.  She  must  give  up  the  life  she  had  hoped 
to  lead  and  take  upon  her  the  life  of  the  wife  of  Cain,  to 
help  him  expiate  his  deed.  For  this  must  she  bow  her 
head  to  the  yoke  her  mother  had  borne  before  her.  In 
the  sadness  of  her  heart  she  said  again  and  again:  "Christ 
will  understand.  He  was  a  man  of  sorrows  and  acquainted 
with  grief  !     He  will  understand." 

Again  came  to  her,  as  they  had  often  come  of  late, 
dropping  down  through  the  still  air,  down  through  the 
leafless  boughs  like  joyful  hopes  yet  to  be  realized,  the 
flute  notes.  What  were  they,  those  sweet  sounds  ?  She 
held  her  breath  and  lifted  her  face  toward  the  sky.  Once, 
long  ago  in  France,  the  peasant  girl  had  heard  the  "Voices." 
Were  they  heavenly  sw^eet,  like  these  sounds  ?  Did  they 
drop  from  the  sky  and  fill  the  air  like  these  ?  Oh,  why 
should  they  seem  like  hopes  to  her  who  had  put  away  from 
her  all  hope  ?  Were  they  bringing  hope  to  her  who  must 
rise  to  toil  and  lie  down  in  weariness  for  labor  never  done ; 
who  must  hold  always  with  sorrowing  heart  and  clinging 
hands  to  the  soul  of  a  murderer  —  hold  and  cling,  if  haply 
she  might  save  —  and  weep  for  that  which,  for  her,  might 
never  be  ?  Were  they  bringing  hope  that  she  might  yet 
live  gladly  as  the  birds  live  ;  that  she  might  go  beyond  that 
and  live  like  those  who  have  no  sin  imposed  on  them,  to 
walk  with  the  gods,  she  knew  not  how,  but  to  rise  to  things 
beyond  her  ken  ? 

Down  came  the  notes,  sweet,  shrill,  white  notes,  — 
hurrying,  drifting,  lingering,  calling  her  to  follow ;  down  on 
her  heart  with  healing  and  comfort  they  fell,  lightly  as 
dew  on  flowers,  sparkling  with  life,  joy-giving  and  pure. 

Slowly  she  began  climbing,  listening,  waiting,  one  step 
upward  after  another,  following  the  sound.  As  if  in  a 
trance  she  moved.  Below  her  the  noise  of  falling  water 
made  a  murmuring  accompaniment  to  the  music  dropping 
from  above  —  an  earth-made  accompaniment  to  heaven- 


The  Voices  113 

sent  melody,  meeting  and  forming  a  perfect  harmony  in 
her  heart  as  she  climbed.  Gradually  the  horror  and  the 
sorrow  fell  away  from  her  even,  as  the  soul  shall  one  day 
shed  its  garment  of  earth,  until  at  last  she  stood  alone  and 
silent  near  David,  etherealized  in  the  faint  light  to  a  spirit- 
like semblance  of  a  woman. 

With  a  glad  pounding  of  his  heart  he  sprang  towards 
her.  Scarcely  conscious  of  the  act  he  held  out  both  his 
arms,  but  she  did  not  move.  She  stood  silently  regarding 
him,  her  hands  dropped  at  her  side,  then  with  drooping 
head  she  turned  and  began  wearily  to  descend  the  way  she 
had  come.  He  followed  her  and  took  her  hand.  She  let  it 
lie  passively  in  his  and  walked  on.  He  wished  he  might 
feel  her  fingers  close  warmly  about  his  own,  but  no,  they 
were  cold.  She  seemed  wholly  withdrawn  from  him,  and 
her  face  bore  the  look  of  one  w^ho  was  walking  in  her  sleep, 
yet  he  knew  her  to  be  awake. 

"Miss  Cassandra,  speak  to  me,"  he  begged,  in  quiet 
tones.  "Don't  walk  away  until  you  tell  me  why  you 
came." 

She  seemed  then  to  become  aware  that  he  was  holding 
her  by  the  hand  and  withdrew  it,  and  in  the  faint  light  he 
thought  she  smiled.  "It  was  just  foolishness.  You  will 
laugh  at  me.  I  heard  the  music,  and  I  thought  it  might 
be  —  you  made  it  I  reckon,  but  down  there  it  sounded  like 
it  might  be  the  'Voices.'  You  remember  how  they  came 
to  Joan  of  x\rc,  like  we  were  reading  last  week  ? "  She 
began  to  walk  on  more  hurriedly. 

"I  will  go  down  with  you,"  he  said,  "you  thought  it 
might  be  the  voices  ?     What  did  they  say  to  you  ?  ". 

"Oh,  don't  go  with  me.     I  never  heed  the  dark." 

"Won't  you  let  me  go  with  you?  W'hat  did  the  flute 
say  to  you  ?     Can't  you  tell  me  ?  " 

She  laughed  a  little  then.  "It  was  only  foolishness.  I 
reckon  the  'Voices'  never  come  these  days.  I  have  heard 
it  before,  but  didn't  know  where  it  came  from.  It  just 
seemed  to  drop  down  from  heaven  like,  and  this  time  it 
seemed  some  different,  as  if  it  might  be  the  'Voices '  calling. 
It  was  pretty,  suh,  far  away  and  soft  —  like  part  —  of 
everything.  My  father's  playing  sounded  sad  most  times, 
like  sweet  crying,  but  this  was  more  like  sweet  laughing. 
I  never  heard  anything  so  glad  like  this  was,  so  I  tried  to 


114  The  Mountain  Girl 

find  It.  Now  I  know  it  is  you  who  make  it  I  won't  dis- 
turb you  again,  suh.  Good  evening."  She  hastened 
away  and  was  soon  lost  in  the  gloom. 

David  stood  until  he  heard  her  footsteps  no  more,  then 
turned  and  entered  his  cabin,  his  mind  and  heart  full  of  her. 
Surely  he  had  called  her,  and  the  sound  of  his  call  was  to 
her  like  *'  sweet  laughing."  Her  face  and  her  quaint  ex- 
pressions went  with  him  into  his  dreams. 

When  he  hurried  down  to  the  widow's  place  next 
morning,  his  mind  filled  with  plans  which  he  meant  to 
carry  out  and  was  sure,  with  the  boyish  certainty  of  his 
nature  he  could  compass,  he  heard  the  voice  of  little 
Hoyle  shrilly  calling  to  old  Pete:  "Whoa,  mule.  Haw 
there.  Haw  there,  mule.  What  ye  goin'  that  side  fer ; 
come  'round  here." 

Below  the  widow's  house,  the  stream,  after  its  riotous 
descent  from  the  fall,  meandered  quietly  through  the  rich 
bit  of  meadow  and  field,  her  inheritance  for  over  a  hundred 
years,  establishing  her  claim  to  distinction  among  her 
neighbors.  Here  Martha  Caswell  had  lived  with  her 
mother  and  her  two  brothers  until  she  married  and  went 
with  her  young  husband  over  "t'other  side  Pisgah"; 
then  her  mother  sent  for  them  to  return,  begging  her  son-in- 
law  to  come  and  care  for  the  place.  Her  two  sons,  reck- 
less and  wild,  were  allowing  the  land  to  run  to  waste,  and 
the  buildings  to  fall  in  pieces  through  neglect. 

The  daughter  Martha,  true  to  her  name,  was  thrifty 
and  careful,  and  under  her  influence,  her  gentle  dreamer  of  a 
husband,  who  cared  more  for  his  fiddle,  his  books,  and  his 
sermons,  gradually  redeemed  the  soil  from  w^eeds  and  the 
buildings  from  dilapidation,  until  at  last,  with  the  proceeds 
of  her  weaving  and  his  own  hard  labor,  they  saved  enough 
to  buy  out  the  brothers'  interests. 

By  that  time  the  younger  son  had  fallen  a  victim  to  his 
wild  life,  and  the  other  moved  down  into  the  low  country 
among  his  wife's  people.  Thus  were  the  Merlins  left  alone 
on  their  primitive  estate.  Here  they  lived  contentedly 
with  Cassandra,  their  only  child,  and  her  father's  constant 
companion,  until  the  tragedy  which  she  had  so  simply 
related  to  David. 

Her  father's  learning  had  been  peculiar.  Only  a  little 
classic  lore,  treasured  where  schools  were  none  and  books 


The  Voices  115 

were  few,  handed  down  from  grandfather  to  grandson. 
His  Greek  he  had  learned  from  the  two  small  books  the 
widow  had  so  carefully  preserved,  their  marginal  notes 
his  only  lexicon.  They  and  his  Bible  and  a  copy  of 
Bunyan's  Pilgrim's  Progress  were  all  that  were  left  of  his 
treasures.  A  teething  puppy  had  torn  his  Dialogues  of 
Plato  to  shreds,  and  when  his  successor  had  come  into  the 
home,  he  had  used  the  Marcus  Aurelius  for  gun  wadding, 
ere  his  wife's  precaution  of  placing  the  padlock  from  the 
door  on  her  mother's  old  linen  chest. 

To-day,  as  David  passed  the  house,  the  old  mother  sat 
on  her  little  p(5rch  churning  butter  in  a  small  dasher  churn. 
She  was  glad,  as  he  could  see,  because  she  could  do  some- 
thing once  more. 

"Now  are  you  happy?"  he  called  laughingly,  as  he 
paused  beside  her. 

"Well,  I  be.  Hit's  been  a  right  smart  o'  while  since  I 
been  able  to  do  a  lick  o'  work.  We  sure  do  have  a  heap 
to  thank  you  fer.  Be  Decatur  Irwin  as  glad  to  lose  his 
foot  as  I  be  to  git  my  laig  back  ?  "  she  queried  whimsically  ; 
**I  reckon  not." 

"I  reckon  not,  too,  but  with  him  it  was  a  case  of  losing 
his  life  or  his  foot,  while  with  you  it  was  only  a  question 
of  walking  about,  or  being  bedridden  for  the  next  twenty 
years." 

"They  be  ignorant,  them  Irwins,  an'  she's  more'n  that, 
fer  she's  a  fool.  She  come  round  yest'day  wantin'  to 
borry  a  hoe  to  fix  up  her  gyarden  patch,  an'  she  'lowed  ef 
you'n  Cass  had  only  lef '  him  be,  he'd  'a'  come  through  all 
right,  fer  hit  war  a-gettin'  better  the  day  you-uns  took  hit 
off.  I  told  her  yas,  he'd  'a'  come  cl'ar  through  to  the  nex' 
world,  like  Farwell  done.  When  the  misery  left  him,  he 
up  an'  died,  an'  Lord  knows  whar  he  went." 

"I'll  get  him  an  artificial  foot  as  soon  as  he  is  able 
to  wear  one.  He'll  get  on  very  well  with  a  peg  under 
his  knee  until  then.  \\Tiat's  Hoyle  doing  with  the 
mule?'' 

"He's  rid'n'  him  fer  Cass.  She's  tryin'  to  get  the  ground 
ready  fer  a  crap.  Hit's  all  we  can  do.  Our  women  nevah 
war  used  to  do  such  work  neither,  but  she  would  try." 

"What's  that?  Is  she  ploughing?"  he  asked  sharply, 
and  strode  away. 


116  The  Mountain  Girl 

"I  reckon  she  don't  want  ye  there,  Doctah,"  the  widow 
called  after  him,  but  he  walked  on. 

The  land  lay  in  a  warto  hollow  completely  surrounded 
by  hills.  It  had  been  many  years  cleared,  and  the  mellow 
soil  was  free  from  stumps  and  roots.  When  Thryng  ar- 
rived, three  furrows  had  been  run  rather  crookedly  the 
length  of  the  patch,  and  Cassandra  stood  surveying  them 
ruefully,  flushed  and  troubled,  holding  to  the  handles  of 
the  small  plough  and  struggling  to  set  it  straight  for  the 
next  furrow. 

The  noise  of  the  fall  behind  them  covered  his  approach, 
and  ere  she  was  aware  he  was  at  her  side.  Placing  his 
two  hands  over  hers  which  clung  stubbornly  to  the  handles 
of  the  plough,  he  possessed  himself  of  them.  Laughingly 
he  turned  her  about  after  the  short  tussle,  and  looked 
down  into  her  warm,  flushed  face.  Still  holding  her  hands, 
he  pulled  her  away  from  the  plough  to  the  grassy  edge  of 
the  field,  leaving  Hoyle  waiting  astride  the  mule. 

"Whoa,  mule.  Stand  still  thar,"  he  shrilled,  as  the 
beast  sought  to  cross  the  bit  of  ploughed  ground  to  reach 
the  grass  beyond. 

"Let  him  eat  a  minute,  Hoyle,"  said  David.  "Let  him 
eat  until  I  come.  Now,  Miss  Cassandra,  what  does  this 
mean  ?  Do  you  think  you  can  plough  all  that  land  ?  Is 
that  it?" 

"I  must." 
'You  must  not." 

"There  is  no  one  else  now.  I  must."  He  could  feel 
her  hands  quiver  in  his,  as  he  forcibly  held  them,  and  knew 
from  her  panting  breath  how  her  heart  was  beating.  She 
held  her  head  high,  nevertheless,  and  looked  bravely 
back  into  his  eyes. 

"You  must  let  me  — "  he  paused.  Intuitively  he  knew 
he  must  not  say  as  yet  what  he  would.  "Let  me  direct 
you  a  little.  You  have  been  most  kind  to  me  —  and  — 
it  is  my  place ;  I  am  a  doctor,  you  know." 

"If  I  were  sick  or  hurt,  I  would  give  heed  to  you,  I 
would  do  anything  you  say ;  but  I'm  not,  and  this  is  laid 
on  me  to  do.     Leave  go  my  hands.  Doctor  Thryng." 

"If  you'll  sit  down  here  a  moment  and  talk  this  thing 
out  with  me,  I  will.  Now  tell  me  first  of  all,  why  is  this 
laid  on  you?" 


id 


The  Voices  117 

"Frale  is  gone  and  it  must  be  done,  or  we  will  have  no 
crop,  and  then  we  must  sell  the  animals,  and  then  go  down 
and  live  like  poor  white  trash."  Her  low,  passive  mono- 
tone sounded  like  a  moan  of  sorrow. 

"You  must  hire  some  one  to  do  this  heavy  work.** 

**  Every  one  is  working  his  own  patch  now,  and  —  no, 
I  have  no  money  to  hire  with.  I  reckon  I've  thought  it 
all  over  every  way.  Doctor."  She  looked  sadly  down  at 
her  hands  and  then  up  at  the  mountain  top.  "I  know  you 
think  this  is  no  work  for  a  girl  to  do,  and  you  are  right. 
Our  women  never  have  done  such.  Only  in  the  war  times 
my  Grandmother  Caswell  did  it,  and  I  can  now.  A  girl 
can  do  what  she  must.  I  have  no  way  to  turn  but  to  live 
as  my  people  have  lived  before  me.  I  thought  once  I 
might  do  different,  go  to  school  and  keep  separate  — 
but — "  She  spread  out  her  hands  with  a  hopeless  ges- 
ture, and  rose  to  resume  her  work. 

"Give  me  a  moment  longer.  I'm  not  through  yet. 
That's  right,  now  listen.  I  see  the  truth  of  what  you 
say,  and  I  came  down  this  morning  to  make  a  proposition 
to  your  mother  —  not  for  your  sake  only  —  don't  be  afraid, 
for  my  own  as  well ;  but  I  didn't  make  it  because  I  hadn't 
time.  She  told  me  what  you  were  doing,  and  I  hurried 
off  to  stop  you.  Don't  speak  yet,  let  me  finish.  I  feel 
I  have  the  right,  because  I  know  —  I  know  I  was  sent  here 
just  now  for  a  purpose  —  guided  to  come  here."  ^  He 
paused  to  allow  his  words  to  have  their  full  weight. 
Whether  she  would  perceive  his  meaning  remained  to  be 
seen. 

"I  understand."  She  spoke  quietly.  "Doctor  Hoyle 
sent  you  to  be  helped  like  he  was  —  and  you  have  been 
right  kind  to  more  than  us.  You've  helped  that- many  it 
seems  like  you  were  sent  here  for  we-all  as  well  as  for  your 
own  sake,  but  that  can't  help  me  now.  Doctor ;  it  — " 

"Ah,  yes  it  can.  I'm  far  from  well  yet.  I  shall  be,  but 
I  must  stay  on  for  a  long  time,  and  I  want  some  interest 
here.  I  want  to  see  things  of  my  own  growing.  The 
ground  up  around  my  little  cabin  is  stony  and  very  poor, 
and  I  want  to  rent  this  little  farm  of  yours.  Listen  — 
I'll  pay  enough  so  you  need  not  sell  your  cattle,  and  you 
—  you  can  go  on  with  your  weaving.  You  can  work  in 
the  house  again  as  you  have  always  done.     Sometime, 


118  The  Mountain  Girl 

when  your  mother  is  stronger,  you  can  take  up  your  life 
again  and  go  to  school  —  as  you  meant  to  live  —  can't 

you?" 

*'That  can  never  be  now.  If  you  take  the  farm  or  not,  I 
must  bide  on  here  in  the  old  way.  I  must  take  up  the 
life  my  mother  lived  and  my  grandmother,  and  hers  before 
her.     It  is  mine,  forever,  to  live  it  that  way  —  or  die." 

"  Why  do  you  talk  so  ?  " 

"God  knows,  but  I  can't  tell  you.  Thank  you,  suh.  I 
will  be  right  glad  to  rent  you  the  farm.  I'd  a  heap  rather 
you  had  it  than  any  one  else  I  ever  knew,  for  we  care  more 
for  it  than  you  would  guess,  but  for  the  rest  —  no.  I 
must  bide  and  work  till  I  die ;  only  maybe  I  c^n  save  little 
Hoyle  and  give  him  a  chance  to  learn  something,  for  he 
never  could  work  —  being  like  he  is." 

Thryng's  eyes  danced  with  joy  as  he  regarded  her. 
"Hoyle  is  not  going  to  be  always  as  he  is,  and  he  shall  have 
the  chance  to  learn  something  also.  Look  up,  Miss 
Cassandra,  look  squarely  into  my  eyes  and  laugh.  Be 
happy.  Miss  Cassandra,  and  laugh.     I  say  it." 

She  laughed  softly  then.     She  could  not  help  it. 

"Wasn't  that  what  the  *  Voices'  were  saying  last  night 
when  you  followed  ?  " 

"Yes,  yes.  They  seemed  like  they  were  calling,  *Hope, 
hope,'  but  they  were  not  the  real  *  Voices.'     You  made  it." 

"Yes,  I  made  it;  and  I  was  truly  calling  that  to  you. 
And  you  replied ;  you  came  to  me." 

"Ah,  but  that  is  different  from  the  *  Voices'  she  heard." 
But  if  they  called  the  truth  to  you  —  what  then  ?  " 
Doctah,  there  is  no  longer  any  hope  for  me.     God 
called  me  and  let  me  cut  off  all  hope,  once.     I  did  it,  and 
now,  only  death  can  change  it." 

"If  I  believe  you,  you  must  believe  me.  W^e  won't 
talk  of  it  any  more.  I'm  hungry.  Your  mother  was 
churning  up  there ;  let's  go  and  get  some  buttermilk,  and 
settle  the  business  of  the  rent.  You've  run  three  good 
furrows  and  I'll  run  three  more  beside  them  —  my  first, 
remember,  in  all  my  life.  Then  we'll  plant  that  strip  to 
sunflowers.     Come,  Hoyle,  tie  the  mule  and  follow  us." 

So  David  carried  his  way.  They  walked  merrily  back 
to  the  house,  chattering  of  his  plans  and  what  he  would 
raise.     He  knew  nothing  whatever  of  the  sort  of  crops  to 


The  Voices  119 

be  raised,  and  she  was  naively  gay  at  his  expense,  a  mood 
he  was  overjoyed  to  awaken  in  her.  He  vowed  that  merely 
to  walk  over  ploughed  ground  made  a  man  stronger.^ 

On  the  porch  he  sat  and  drank  his  buttermilk  and, 
placing  his  paper  on  the  step,  drew  up  a  contract  for  rent. 
Then  Cassandra  went  to  her  weaving,  and  he  and  Hoyle 
returned  to  the  field,  where  with  much  labor  he  succeeded 
in  turning  three  furrows  beside  Cassandra's,  rather  crooked 
and  uncertain  ones,  it  is  true,  but  quite  as  good  as  hers,  as 
Hoyle  reluctantly  admitted,  which  served  to  give  David 
a  higher  respect  for  farmers  in  general  and  ploughmen 
especially. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

IN  WHICH   DAVID   DISCOVERS   CASSANDRA's   TROUBLE 

After  turning  his  furrows,  David  told  Hoyle  to  ride 
the  mule  to  the  stable,  then  he  sat  himself  on  the  fence, 
and  meditated.  He  bethought  him  that  in  the  paper  he 
had  drawn  up  he  had  made  no  provision  for  the  use  of  the 
mule.  He  wiped  his  forehead  and  rubbed  the  perspira- 
tion from  his  hair,  and  coughed  a  little  after  his  exertion, 
glad  at  heart  to  find  himself  so  well  off. 

He  would  come  and  plough  a  little  every  day.  Then  he 
began  to  calculate  the  number  of  days  it  would  take  him 
to  finish  the  patch,  measuring  the  distance  covered  by  the 
six  furrows  with  his  eye,  and  comparing  it  with  the 
whole.  He  laughed  to  find  that,  at  the  rate  of  six  furrows 
a  day,  the  task  would  take  him  well  on  into  the  summer. 
Plainly  he  must  find  a  ploughman. 

Then  the  laying  out  of  the  ground  !  Why  should  he 
not  have  a  vineyard  up  on  the  farther  hill  slope  .^  He 
never  could  have  any  fruit  from  it,  but  what  of  that ! 
Even  if  he  went  away  and  never  returned,  he  would  know 
it  to  be  adding  its  beauty  to  this  wonderful  dream.  Who 
could  know  what  the  future  held  for  him  —  what  this 
little  spot  might  mean  to  him  in  the  days  to  come  ^  That 
he  would  go  out,  fully  recovered  and  strong  to  play  his  part 
in  life,  he  never  doubted.  Might  not  this  idyl  be  a  part  of 
it  ?  He  thought  of  the  girl  sitting  at  her  loom,  swaying 
as  she  threw  her  shuttle  with  the  rhythm  of  a  poem,  and 
weaving  —  weaving  his  life  and  his  heart  into  her  web, 
unknown  to  herself  —  weaving  a  thread  of  joy  through 
it  all  which  as  yet  she  could  not  see.  He  knocked  the 
ashes  from  his  pipe  and  stood  a  moment  gazing  about 
him. 

Yes,  he  really  must  have  a  vineyard,  and  a  bit  of  pasture 
somewhere,  and  a  field  of  clover.  What  grew  best  there 
he  little  knew,  so  he  decided  to  go  up  and  consult  the 
widow. 

There  were  other  things  also  to  claim  his  thoughts. 

120 


Cassandra's  Trouble  121 

Over  toward  "Wild  Cat  Hole"  there  was  a  woman  who 
needed  his  care ;  and  he  must  not  become  so  absorbed  in 
his  pastoral  romance  as  to  forset  Hoyle.  He  was  looking 
actually  haggard  these  last  few  days,  and  his  mother  said 
he  would  not  eat.  It  might  be  that  he  needed  more  than 
the  casual  care  he  was  giving  him.  Possibly  he  could  take 
him  to  Doctor  Hoyle's  hospital  for  radical  treatment  later 
in  the  season,  when  his  crops  were  well  started.  He  smiled 
as  he  thought  of  his  crops,  then  laughed  outright,  and 
strolled  back  to  the  house,  weary  and  hungry,  and  happy 
as  a  boy. 

"Well,  now,  I  like  the  look  of  ye,"  called  the  old  mother 
from  the  porch,  where  she  still  sat.  '"Pears  like  it's  done 
ye  good  a-ready  to  turn  planter.  The'  hain't  nothin* 
better'n  the  smell  o'  new  sile  fer  them  'at's  consumpted." 

"Mother,"  cried  Cassandra  from  within,  "don't  call 
the  doctor  that !  Come  up  and  have  dinner  with  us. 
Doctor."  She  set  a  chair  for  him  as  she  spoke,  but  he 
would  not.  As  he  stood  below  them,  looking  up  and  ex- 
changing merry  banter  with  her  mother,  he  laughed  his 
contagious  laugh. 

"I  bet  he's  tired,"  shrilled  Hoyle,  from  his  perch  on  the 
porch  roof.  "He  be'n  settin'  on  the  fence  smokin'  an' 
rubbin'  his  hade  with  his  handkercher  like  he'd  had  enough 
with  his  ploughin'.  You  can  nigh  about  beat  him,  Cass. 
Hisn  didn't  look  no  better'n  what  yourn  looked." 

"Here,  you  young  rascal  you,  come  down  from  there," 
cried  David.  Catching  him  by  the  foot,  which  hung  far 
enough  over  to  be  within  reach  of  his  long  arm,  he  pulled 
him  headlong  from  his  high  position  and  caught  him  in 
mid-air.     "Now,  how  shall  I  punish  you  .^^ " 

"Ye  bettah  whollop  him.  He  hain't  nevah  been 
switched  good  in  his  hull  life.  Maybe  that's  what  ails 
him." 

The  child  grinned.  "I  hain't  afeared.  Get  me  down 
on  the  ground  oncet,  an'  I  c'n  run  faster'n  he  can." 

"Suppose  I  duck  him  in  the  water  trough  yonder.^" 

"I  reckon  he  needs  it.  He  generally  do,"  smiled  Cas- 
sandra from  the  doorway.  "Come,  son,  go  wash  up." 
David  allowed  the  child  to  slip  to  the  ground.  "Seems 
like  Hoyle  is  right  enough  about  you,  though.  Don't  go 
away  up  the  hill ;  bide  here  and  have  dinner  first." 


122  The  Mountain  Girl 

David  dropped  on  the  step  for  a  moment's  rest.  **I 
see  I  must  make  a  way  up  to  my  cabin  that  will  not  pass 
your  door.  How  about  that  .^  Was  dinner  included  in 
the  rent,  and  the  mule  and  the  mule's  dinner  ?  And  what 
is  Hoyle  going  to  pay  me  for  allowing  him  to  ride  Pete  up 
and  down  while  I  plough.^" 

"Yas,  an'  what  are  ye  goin'  to  give  him  fer  'lowin'  ye 
to  set  his  hade  round  straight,  an'  what  are  ye  goin'  to 
give  me  fer  'lowin'  ye  to  set  me  on  my  laigs  again  ?  Ef  ye 
go  a-countin'  that-a-way,  I'm  'feared  ye're  layin'  up  a 
right  smart  o'  debt  to  we-uns.  I  reckon  you'll  use  that 
mule  all  ye  want  to,  an'  ye'll  lick  him  good,  too,  when  he 
needs  hit,  an'  take  keer  o'  yourself,  fer  he's  a  mean  critter; 
an'  ye'll  keep  that  path  right  whar  hit  is,  fer  hit  goes 
with  the  farm  long's  you  bide  up  yandah." 

"You  good  people  have  the  best  of  me;  we'll  call  it  all 
even.  Ever  since  I  leaped  off  that  train  in  the  snow,  I 
have  been  dependent  on  you  for  my  comfort.  Well,  I 
must  hurry  on ;  since  I've  turned  farmer  I'm  a  busy  man. 
Can  you  suggest  any  one  I  might  get  to  do  that  ploughing? 
Miss  Cassandra  here  may  be  able  to  do  it  without  help, 
but  I  confess  I'm  not  equal  to  it." 

*'I  be'n  tellin'  Cass  that  thar  Elwine  Timms,  he  ought 
to  be  able  to  do  the  hull  o'  that  work.  Widow  Timmses' 
son.  They  live  ovah  nigh  the  Gerret  place  thar  at  Lone 
Pine  Creek.  He  used  to  help  Frale  with  the  still.  An' 
then  thar's  Hoke  Belew  —  he  ought  to  do  sumthin'  fer 
all  you  done  fer  his  wife  —  sittin'  up  the  hull  night  long, 
an'  gettin'  up  at  midnight  to  run  to  them.  Oh,  I  hearn  a 
heap  sittin'  here.  Things  comes  to  me  that-a-way. 
Thar  hain't  much  goin'  on  within  twenty  mile  o'  here 
'at  I  don't  know.  They  is  plenty  hereabouts  owes  you  a 
heap." 

"I  think  I've  been  treated  very  well.  They  keep  me 
supplied  with  all  I  need.  What  more  can  a  man  ask  ? 
The  other  day,  a  man  brought  me  a  sack  of  corn  meal, 
fresh  and  sweet  from  the  mill  —  a  man  with  six  children 
and  a  sick  mother  to  feed,  but  what  could  I  do  ?  He 
would  leave  it,  and  I  —  well,  I — " 

"When  they  bring  ye  things,  you  take  'em.  Ye'll  help 
'em  a  heap  more  that-a-way  'n  ye  will  curin'  'em.  The' 
hain't  nothin'  so  good  fer  a  man  as  payin'  his  debts.     Hit 


Cassandra's  Trouble  1£S 

keeps  his  hade  up  whar  a  man  'at's  good  fer  anything 
ought  to  keep  hit.  I  hearn  a  heap  o'  talk  here  in  these 
mountains  'bouts  bein'  stuck  up,  but  I  tell  'em  if  a  body 
feels  he  hain't  good  fer  nothin',  he  pretty  generally  hain't. 
He'd  a  heap  better  feel  stuck  up  to  my  thinkin'." 

"They've  done  pretty  well,  all  who  could.  They've 
brought  me  everything  from  corn  whiskey  to  fodder  for 
my  horse.  A  woman  brought  me  a  bag  of  dried  blueberries 
the  other  day.  I  don't  know  what  to  do  with  them.  I 
have  to  take  them,  for  I  can't  be  graceless  enough  to  send 
them  away  with  their  gifts." 

"You  bring  'em  here,  an'  Cass'U  make  ye  a  blueberry 
cake  to  eat  hot  with  butter  melt'n'  on  hit  'at'll  make  ye 
think  the  world's  a  good  place  to  live  in." 

"I'll  do  it,"  he  said,  laughing,  and  took  his  solitary  path 
up  the  steep.  Halfway  to  his  cabin,  he  heard  quick, 
scrambling  steps  behind  him,  and,  turning,  saw  little 
Hoyle  bringing  Cassandra's  small  melon-shaped  basket, 
covered  with  a  white  cloth. 

"I  said  I  could  run  faster'n  you  could.  Cass,  she  sont 
some  th'  chick'n  fry."  He  thrust  the  basket  at  Thryng 
and  turned  to  run  home. 

"Here,  here  !"  David  called  after  the  twisted,  hunched 
little  figure.  "You  tell  your  sister  'thank  you  very  much,' 
for  me.     Will  you?" 

"Yas,  suh,"  and  the  queer  little  gnome  disappeared 
among   the   laurel   below. 

In  the  morning,  David  found  the  place  of  the  Widow 
Timms,  and  her  son  agreed  to  come  down  the  next  day  and 
accept  wages  for  work.  A  weary,  spiritless  young  man  he 
was,  and  the  home  as  poverty-stricken  as  was  that  of 
Decatur  Irwin,  and  with  almost  as  many  children.  It 
was  with  a  feeling  of  depression  that  David  rode  on  after 
his  call,  leaving  the  grandmother  seated  in  the  doorway, 
snuff  stick  between  her  yellow  teeth,  the  grandchildren 
clustering  about  her  knees,  or  squatting  in  the  dirt,  like 
young  savages.  Their  father  lounged  in  the  wretched 
cabin,  hardly  to  be  seen  in  the  windowless,  smoke-black- 
ened space  nearly  filled  with  beds  heaped  with  ragged 
bedclothes,  and  broken  splint-bottomed  chairs  hung  about 
with  torn  and  soiled  garments. 

The   dirt   and   disorder   irritated   David,   and   he   felt 


124  The  Mountain  Girl 

angered  at  the  clay-faced  son  for  not  being  out  preparing 
his  little  patch  of  ground.  Fortunately,  he  had  been  able 
to  conceal  his  annoyance  enough  to  secure  the  man's  prom- 
ise to  begin  work  next  day,  or  he  would  have  gained 
nothing  but  the  family's  resentment  for  his  pains.  Al- 
ready David  had  learned  that  a  sort  of  resentful  pride  was 
the  last  shred  of  respectability  to  which  the  poorest  and 
most  thriftless  of  the  mountain  people  clung  —  pride  of 
he  knew  not  what,  and  resentfulness  toward  any  who,  by 
thrift  and  labor,  were  better  off  than  themselves. 

He  reasoned  that  as  the  young  man  had  been  Frale's 
helper  at  the  still,  no  doubt  corn  whiskey  was  at  the 
bottom  of  their  misery.  This  brought  his  mind  to  the 
thought  of  Frale  himself.  The  young  man  had  not  been 
mentioned  between  him  and  Cassandra  since  the  day  she 
sought  his  help.  He  thought  he  could  not  be  far  from  the 
still,  as  he  forded  Lone  Pine  Creek,  on  his  way  to  the  home 
of  Hoke  Belew,  whose  wife  he  was  going  to  see. 

David  was  interested  in  this  young  family ;  they  seemed 
to  him  to  be  quite  of  the  better  sort,  and  as  he  put  space 
between  himself  and  the  Widow  Timms'  deplorable  state, 
his  irritation  gradually  passed,  and  he  was  able  to  take  note 
of  the  changes  a  week  had  wrought  in  the  growing  things 
about  him. 

More  than  once  he  diverged  to  investigate  blossoming 
shrubs  which  were  new  to  him,  attracted  now  by  a  sweet 
odor  where  no  flowers  appeared,  until  closer  inspection 
revealed  them,  and  now  by  a  blaze  of  color  against  the 
dark  background  of  laurel  leaves  and  gray  rocks.  Ah, 
the  flaming  azalea  had  made  its  appearance  at  last,  huge 
clusters  of  brilliant  bloom  on  leafless  shrubs.  How  daz- 
zlingly  gay  ! 

In  the  midst  of  his  observance  of  things  about  him,  and 
underneath  his  surface  thoughts,  he  carried  with  him  a 
continual  feeling  of  satisfaction  in  the  remembrance  of 
the  little  farm  below  the  Fall  Place,  and  in  an  amused  way 
planned  about  it,  and  built  idly  his  "Castles  in  Spain." 
A  bit  of  stone  wall  whose  lower  end  was  overgrown  with 
vines  pleased  him  especially,  and  a  few  enormous  trees, 
which  had  been  left  standing  when  the  spot  had  been 
originally  cleared,  and  the  vine-entangled,  drooping 
trees  along  the  banks  of  the  small  river  that  coursed 


Cassandra's  Trouble  125 

crookedly  through  it,  —  what  possibilities  it  all  presented 
to  his  imagination  !  If  only  he  could  find  the  right  man  to 
carry  out  his  ideas  for  him,  he  would  lease  the  place 
for  fifty  years  for  the  privilege  of  doing  as  he  would 
with  it. 

After  a  time  he  came  out  upon  the  cleared  farm  of 
Hoke  Belew,  who  was  industriously  ploughing  his  field  for 
cotton,  and  called  out  to  him,  "How's  the  wife?'* 

"She  hain't  not  to  say  right  smart,  an'  the  baby  don't 
act  like  he's  w^ell,  neither,  suh.  Ride  on  to  th'  house  an* 
hght.     She's  thar,  an'  I'll  be  up  d'rectly." 

Thryng  rode  on  and  dismounted,  tying  his  horse  to  a 
sapling  near  the  door.  The  place  was  an  old  one.  A 
rose  vine,  very  ancient,  covered  the  small  porch  and  the 
black,  old,  moss-grown  roof.  The  small  green  foliage 
had  come  out  all  over  it  in  the  week  since  he  was  last 
there.  The  glazed  windows  w^ere  open,  and  white  home- 
spun curtains  were  swaying  in  the  light  breeze.  A  small 
fire  blazed  on  the  hearth,  and  before  it,  in  a  huge-splint- 
bottomed  rocking-chair,  the  pale  young  mother  reclined 
languidly,  wrapped  in  a  patchwork  quilt.  The  hearth 
was  swept  and  all  was  neat,  but  very  bare. 

Close  to  the  black  fireplace  on  a  low  chair,  with  the 
month-old  baby  on  her  knees,  sat  Cassandra.  She  was 
warming  something  at  the  fire,  which  she  reached  over  to 
stir  now  and  then,  while  the  red  light  played  brightly  over 
her  sweet,  grave  face.  Very  intent  she  was,  and  lovely 
to  see.  She  wore  a  creamy  white  homespun  gown,  coarse 
in  texture,  such  as  she  had  begun  to  wear  about  the  house 
since  the  warm  days  had  come.  Thryng  had  seen  her 
in  such  a  dress  but  once  before,  and  he  liked  it.  With 
one  arm  guarding  the  little  bundle  in  her  lap,  dividing  her 
attention  between  it  and  the  porridge  she  was  making, 
she  sat,  a  living  embodimxcnt  of  David's  vision,  silhouetted 
against  and  haloed  by  the  red  fire,  softened  by  the  blue, 
obscuring  smoke-wreaths  that  slowly  circled  in  great  rings 
and  then  swept  up  the  wide,  overarching  chimney. 

He  heard  her  low  voice  speaking,  and  his  heart  leaped 
toward  her  as  he  stood  an  instant,  unheeded  by  them,  ere 
he  rapped  lightly.  They  both  turned  with  a  slight  start. 
Cassandra  rose,  holding  the  sleeping  babe  in  the  hollow  of 
her  arm,  and  set  a  chair  for  him  before  the  fire.     Then  she 


126  The  Mountain  Girl 

laid  the  child  carefully  in  the  mother's  arms,  and  removed 
the  porridge  from  the  fire. 

"Shall  I  call  Hoke?"  she  asked,  moving  toward  the 
door. 

David  did  not  want  her  to  leave  them,  loving  the  sight 
of  her.     "Don't  go.     I  saw  him  as  I  came  along,"  he  said. 

But  she  went  on,  and  sat  herself  on  a  seat  under  a  huge 
locust  tree.  Tardiest  of  all  the  trees,  it  had  not  yet 
leaved  out.  Later  it  would  be  covered  with  a  wealth  of 
sweet  white  blossoms  swarming  with  honey-bees,  and 
the  air  all  about  it  would  be  filled  with  its  lavish  fragrance 
and  the  noise  of  humming  wings. 

Presently  Hoke  came  plodding  up  from  the  field,  and 
smiled  as  he  passed  her.     "Doc  inside.^"  he  asked. 

She  nodded.  When  David  came  out,  he  found  her  still 
seated  there,  her  head  resting  wearily  against  the  rough 
tree.     She  rose  and  came  toward  him. 

"I  thought  I  wouldn't  leave  until  I  knew  if  there  was 
anything  more  I  could  do,"  she  said  simply. 

"No,  you've  done  all  you  can.  She'll  be  all  right. 
Where's  your  horse  ?  " 

"I  walked." 

"Why  did  you  do  that  ?    You  ought  not,  you  know." 

"Hoyle  rode  the  colt  down  to  see  could  Aunt  Sally 
come  here  for  a  day  or  two,  until  Miz  Belew  can  do  for 
herself  better."     She  turned  back  to  the  house. 

"Come  home  now  with  me.  Ride  my  horse,  and  I'll 
walk.     I'd  like  to  walk,"  urged  David. 

"Oh,  no.  Thank  you.  Doctor,  I  must  speak  to  Azalie 
first.     Don't  wait." 

She  went  in,  and  David  mounted  and  rode  slowly  on, 
but  not  far.  Where  the  trail  led  through  a  small  stream 
which  he  knew  she  must  cross,  he  dismounted  and  allowed 
the  horse  to  drink,  while  he  stood  looking  back  along  the 
way  for  her  to  come  to  him.  Soon  he  saw  her  white  dress 
among  the  glossy  rhododendron  leaves  as  she  moved 
swiftly  along,  and  he  walked  back  to  meet  her. 

"I  have  waited  for  you.  You  are  not  used  to  this  kind 
of  a  saddle,  I  know,  but  what's  the  difference  ?  You  can 
ride  cross-saddle  as  the  young  ladies  do  in  the  North, 
can't  vou  ?" 

I  reckon  I  could."     She  laughed  a  little.     "Do  they 


it 


Cassandra's  Trouble  127 

ride  that  way  where  you  come  from  ?  It  must  look  right 
funny.     I  don't  guess  I'd  Uke  it." 

*'But  just  try  —  to  please  me?    Why  not?" 

"If  you  don't  mind,  I'd  rather  walk,  please,  suh.  Don't 
wait." 

"Then  I  will  walk  with  you.  I  may  do  that,  may  I 
not?"  He  caught  the  bridle-rein  on  the  saddle,  leaving 
the  horse  to  browse  along  behind  as  he  would,  and  walked 
at  her  side.  She  made  no  further  protest,  but  was 
silent. 

"You  don't  object  to  this,  do  you  ?"  he  insisted. 

"It's  pleasanter  than  being  alone,  but  it's  right  far  to 
walk,  seems  like,  for  you." 

"Then  why  not  for  you  ?"  She  smiled  her  mysterious, 
quiet  smile.  "You  must  know  that  I  am  stronger  than 
you?"  he  persisted. 

"I  ought  to  think  so,  since  that  day  we  rode  over  to 
Gate  Irwin's,  but  I  was  right  afraid  for  you  that  time, 
lest  you  get  cold ;  and  then  it  was  me  — "  she  paused,  and 
looked  squarely  in  his  eyes  and  laughed.  "You  wouldn't 
say  'it  was  me,'  would  you  ?" 

He  joined  merrily  in  her  laughter.  "I  never  corrected 
you  on  that." 

"You  never  did,  but  you  didn't  need  to.  I  often  know, 
after  I've  said  something  —  not  —  right  —  as  you  would 
say  it." 

"Do  you,  indeed?"  he  walked  nearer,  boyishly  happy 
because  she  was  close  beside  him.  He  wanted  to  touch 
her,  to  take  her  hand  and  walk  as  children  do,  but  could 
not  because  of  the  subtile  barrier  he  felt  between  them. 
He  determined  to  break  it  down.  "Finish  what  you  were 
saying?     And  then  it  was  me  —  what?'* 

"And  then  it  was  I  who  gave  out,  not  you." 

"But  you  were  a  heroine  —  a  heroine  from  the  ground 
up,  and  I  love  you."  He  spoke  with  such  boyish  impul- 
siveness that  she  took  the  remark  as  one  of  his  extrava- 
gances, and  merely  smiled  indulgently,  as  if  amused  at  it. 
She  did  not  even  flush,  but  accepted  it  as  she  would  an 
outburst  from  Hoyle. 

David  was  amazed.  It  only  served  to  show  him  how 
completely  outside  that  charmed  circle  within  which  she 
lived  he  still  was.     He  was  maddened  by  it.     He  came 


128  The  Mountain  Girl 

nearer  and  bent  to  look  in  her  face,  until  she  lifted  her 
eyes  to  look  fairly  in  his. 

''That's  right.  Look  at  me  and  understand  me.  I 
waited  there  only  that  I  might  tell  you.  Why  do  you  put 
a  wall  between  us  "^  I  tell  you  I  love  you.  I  love  you, 
Cassandra  ;   do  you  understand  ?" 

She  stood  quite  still  and  gazed  at  him  in  amazement, 
almost  as  if  in  terror.  Her  face  grew  white,  and  she 
pressed  her  two  hands  on  her  heart,  then  slowly  slid  them 
up  to  her  round  white  throat  as  if  it  hurt  her  —  a  move- 
ment he  had  seen  in  her  twice  before,  when  suffering 
emotion. 

"Why,  Cassandra,  does  it  hurt  you  for  me  to  tell  you 
that  I  love  you  ?     Beautiful  girl,  does  it .? " 
*  "Yes,  suh,"  she  said  huskily. 

He  would  have  taken  her  in  his  arms,  but  refrained 
for  very  love  of  her.  She  should  be  sacred  even  from  his 
touch,  if  she  so  wished,  and  the  barrier,  whatever  it  might 
be,  should  halo  her.  He  had  spoken  so  tenderly  he  had 
no  need  to  tell  her.  The  love  was  in  his  eyes  and  his 
voice,  but  he  went  on. 

"Then  I  must  be  cruel  and  hurt  you.  I  love  you  all 
the  days  and  the  nights  —  all  the  moments  of  the  days  — 
I  love  you." 

In  very  terror,  she  flung  out  her  hands  and  placed  them 
on  his  breast,  holding  him  thus  at  arm's-length,  and  with 
head  thrown  back,  still  looked  into  his  eyes  piteously, 
imploringly.  With  trembling  lips,  she  seemed  to  be  speak- 
ing, but  no  voice  came.  He  covered  her  hands  with  his, 
and  held  them  where  she  had  placed  them. 

"You  have  put  a  wall  between  us.  Why  have  you 
done  it?" 

"I  didn't — didn't  know;  I  thought  you  were  —  as 
far  —  as  far  away  from  us  as  the  star  —  the  star  of  gold 
is  —  from  our  world  in  the  night  —  so  far  —  I  didn't  guess 
—  you  could  come  so — near."  She  bowed  her  head 
and  wept. 

"You  are  the  star  yourself,  you  beautiful  — you  are  — " 

But  she  stopped  him,  crying  out.  She  could  not  draw 
her  hands  away,  for  he  still  held  them  clasped  to  his 
heart. 

"No,  no !    The  wall  is  there.     It  must  be  between  us 


Cassandra's  Trouble  129 

for  always,  I  am  promised."  The  grief  wailed  and  wept 
in  her  tones,  and  her  eyes  were  wide  and  pleading.  "I 
must  lead  my  life,  and  you  —  you  must  stay  outside  the 
wall.  If  you  love  me  —  Doctor,  —  you  must  never  know 
it,  and  I  must  never  know  it."  Her  beating  heart  stopped 
her  speech  and  they  both  stood  thus  a  moment,  each  seeing 
only  the  other's  soul. 

"Promised.^"  The  word  sank  into  his  heart  like  lead. 
*' Promised  .^"  Slowly  he  released  her  hands,  and  she 
covered  her  face  with  them  and  sank  at  his  feet.  He  bent 
down  to  her  and  asked  almost  in  a  whisper  :  "Promised  ? 
Did  you  say  that  word.^^" 

She  drooped  lower  and  was  silent. 

All  the  chivalry  of  his  nature  rose  within  him.  Should 
he  come  into  her  life  only  to  torment  and  trouble  her  ? 
Ought  he  to  leave  the  place  ?  Could  he  bear  to  live  so 
near  her  ?  What  had.  she  done  —  this  flower  ?  Was  she 
to  be  devoured  by  swine  ?  The  questions  clamored  at 
the  door  of  his  heart.  But  one  thing  could  he  see  clearly. 
He  must  wait  without  the  wall,  seeking  only  to  serve  and 
protect  her. 

With  the  unerring  instinct  which  led  her  always  straight 
to  the  mark,  she  had  seen  the  only  right  course.  He 
repeated  her  words  over  and  over  to  himself.  "  If  j^ou  love 
me,  you  must  never  know  it,  and  I  must  never  know  it." 
Her  heart  should  be  sacred  from  his  personal  intrusion, 
and  their  old  relations  must  be  reestablished,  at  whatever 
cost  to  himself. 

With  flash-light  clearness  he  saw  his  diflficulty,  and  that 
only  by  the  elimination  of  self  could  he  serve  her,  and  also 
that  her  manner  of  receiving  his  revelation  had  but  inten- 
sified his  feeling  for  her.  The  few  short  moments  seemed 
hours  of  struggle  with  himself  ere  he  raised  her  to  her 
feet  and  spoke  quietly,  in  his  old  way. 

He  lifted  her  hand  to  his  lips.  *'It  is  past,  Miss  Cas- 
sandra. We  will  drop  these  few  moments  out  of  your  life 
into  a  deep  well,  and  it  shall  be  as  if  they  had  never  been." 
He  thought  as  he  spoke  that  the  well  w^as  his  own  heart, 
but  that  he  would  not  say,  for  henceforth  his  love  and 
service  must  be  selfless.  "We  may  be  good  friends  still? 
Just  as  we  were  ?" 

"Yes,  suh,"  she  spoke  meekly. 


130  The  Mountain  Girl 

"And  we  can  go  right  on  helping  each  other,  as  we  have 
done  all  these  weeks  ?     I  do  not  need  to  leave  you  ?  " 

*'0h,  no,  no  !"  She  spoke  with  a  gasp  of  dismay  at  the 
thought.  **  It  —  won't  hurt  so  much  if  I  can  see  you  going 
right  on  —  getting  strong  —  like  you  have  been,  and 
being  happy  —  and — "  She  paused  in  her  slowly  trail- 
ing speech  and  looked  about  her.  They  were  down  in  a 
little  glen,  and  there  were  no  mountain  tops  in  sight  for 
her  to  look  up  to  as  was  her  custom. 

*'  And  what,  Cassandra  l!  Finish  what  you  were  saying." 
Still  for  a  while  she  was  silent,  and  they  walked  on  together. 
"And  now  won't  you  say  what  you  were  going  to  say?" 
He  could  not  talk  himself,  and  he  longed  to  hear  her  voice. 

"I  was  thinking  of  the  music  you  made.  It  was  so  glad. 
I  can't  talk  and  say  always  what  I  think,  like  you  do, 
but  seems  like  it  won't  hurt  me  so  here,"  she  put  her  hand 
to  her  throat,  "where  it  always  hurts  me  when  I  am  sorry 
at  anything,  if  I  can  hear  you  glad  in  the  music  —  like 
you  were  that  —  night  I  thought  you  were  the  '  Voices.*  " 

"Cassandra,  it  shall  be  glad  for  you,  always." 

She  looked  into  his  eyes  an  instant  with  the  clear  light 
of  understanding  in  her  own.  "But  for  you  .^  It  is  for 
you  I  want  it  to  be  glad." 


CHAPTER  XIV 

IN  TVHICH  DAVID  VISITS  THE  BISHOP,  AND  FRALE  SEES  HIS 

ENEMY 

The  bishop  was  seated  in  a  deep  canvas  chair  on  his 
wide  veranda,  looking  out  over  his  garden  toward  a  dis- 
tant hne  of  blue  hills.  His  little  wife  sat  close  to  his  side 
on  a  low  rocker,  very  busy  with  the  making  of  buttonholes 
in  a  small  girl's  frock  of  white  dimity  and  lace.  Betty 
Towers  loved  lace  and  pretty  things. 

The  small  girl  was  playing  about  the  garden  paths  with 
her  puppy  and  chattering  with  Frale  in  her  high,  happy, 
childish  voice,  while  he  bent  weeding  among  the  beds  of 
okra  and  egg-plant.  His  face  wore  a  more  than  usually 
discontented  look,  even  when  answering  the  child  with 
teasing  banter.  Xow  and  then  he  lifted  his  eyes  from  his 
work  and  watched  furtively  the  movements  of  David 
Thryng,  who  was  pacing  restlessly  up  and  down  the  long 
veranda  in  earnest  conversation  with  the  bishop  and  his 
wife. 

The  two  in  the  garden  could  not  understand  what  was 
being  said  at  the  house,  but  each  party  could  hear  the 
voices  of  the  other,  and  by  calling  out  a  little  could  easily 
converse  across  the  dividing  hedge  and  the  intervening 
space. 

"Talk  about  the  influence  of  the  beautiful  in  nature 
upon  the  human  soul,  —  it  is  all  very  pretty,  but  I  believe 
the  soul  must  be  more  or  less  enli<2:htened  to  feel  it.  I've 
learned  a  few  things  among  your  people  up  there  in  the 
mountains.     Strange  bcinfsrs  thev  are." 

*'It  onlv  goes  to  show  that  hereditv  alone  won't  do  every- 
thing,"  said  the  bishop,  placing  the  tips  of  his  fingers 
together  and  frowning  meditatively. 

"Heredity?  It  means  a  lot  to  us  over  there  in  Eng- 
land." 

"Yes,  ves.  But  vour  old  families  need  a  little  new 
blood  in  them  now  and  then,  even  if  they  have  to  come 
over  here  for  it." 

131 


132  The  Mountain  Girl 

*'For  that  and  —  your  money  —  yes."  Thryng 
laughed.  "But  these  mountain  people  of  yours,  who 
are  they  anyway  't " 

*']Most  of  them  are  of  as  pure  a  strain  of  British  as  any 
in  the  world  —  as  any  you  will  find  at  home.  They  have 
their  heredity  —  and  only  that  —  from  all  your  classes 
over  there,  but  it  is  from  those  of  a  hundred  or  more  years 
ago.  They  are  the  unmixed  descendants  of  those  you  sent 
over  here  for  gain,  drove  over  by  tyranny,  or  exported  for 
crime." 

"How  unmixed  in  your  most  horribly  mixed  and  mon- 
grel population  '^  " 

"Circumstances  and  environment  have  kept  them  to  the 
pure  stock,  and  neglect  has  left  them  untrammelled  by 
civilization  and  unaided  by  education.  Time  and  genera- 
tions of  ignorance  have  deteriorated  them,  and  nature 
alone  —  as  you  were  but  now  admitting  —  has  hardly 
served  to  arrest  the  process  by  the  survival  of  the  fittest.'* 

"Nature  —  yes — how  do  you  account  for  it.^  I  have 
been  in  the  grandest,  most  wonderful  places,  I  venture  to 
say,  that  are  to  be  found  on  earth,  and  among  all  the  glory 
that  nature  can  throw  around  a  man,  he  is  still,  if  left  to 
himself,  more  bestial  than  the  beasts.  He  destroys  and 
defaces  and  defiles  nature ;  he  kills  —  for  the  mere  sake 
of  killing  —  more  than  he  needs ;  he  enslaves  himself 
to  his  appetites  and  passions,  follows  them  wildly,  yields 
to  them  recklessly  ;  and  destroys  himself  and  all  the  beauty 
around  him  that  he  can  reach,  wantonly.  Why,  Bishop 
Towers,  sometimes  I've  gone  out  and  looked  up  at  the  stars 
above  me  and  wondered  which  was  real,  they  and  the  mar- 
vellous beauty  all  around  me,  or  the  three  hundred  reeking 
humanity  sleeping  in  the  camp  beneath  them.  Sometimes 
it  seemed  as  if  only  hell  were  real,  and  the  camp  was  a  bit 
of  it  let  loose  to  mock  at  heaven." 

"We  mustn't  forget  that  what  is  transitory  is  not  a 
part  of  God's  eternity  of  spirit  and  truth." 

"Oh,  yes,  yes  !  But  we  do  forget.  x\nd  some  transitory 
things  are  mighty  hard  to  endure,  especially  if  they  must 
endure  for  a  lifetime." 

David  was  thinking  of  Cassandra  and  what  in  all  prob- 
ability would  be  her  doom.  He  had  not  mentioned  her 
name,  but  he  had  come  down  with  the  intention  of  learning 


David  visits  the  Bishop  133 

all  he  could  about  her,  and  if  possible  to  whom  she  was 
*'promised."  He  feared  it  might  be  the  low-browed, 
handsome  youth  bending  over  the  garden  beds  beyond 
the  hedge,  and  his  heart  rebelled  and  cried  out  fiercely 
within  him,  *'What  a  waste,  what  a  waste!" 

Betty  Towers,  intent  on  her  sewing,  felt  the  thrill  that 
intensified  David's  tone,  and  she,  too,  thought  of  Cas- 
sandra. She  dropped  her  work  in  her  lap  and  looked 
earnestly  in  her  husband's  face. 

"James,  I  feel  just  as  Doctor  Thryng  does  —  when  I 
think  of  some  things.  When  I  see  a  tragedy  coming  to 
a  human  soul,  I  feel  that  a  lifetime  of  transitory  things 
like  that  is  hard  to  endure.  Fancy,  James  !  Think  of 
Cassandra.  You  knov/  her,  Doctor  Thryng,  of  course. 
They  live  just  below  your  place.  She  is  the  Widow  Far- 
well's  daughter,  but  her  name  is  Merlin." 

David  arrested  his  impatient  stride  and,  drawing  a  chair 
near  her,  dropped  into  it.  "What  about  her.'^"  he  said. 
"Whatis  the  tragedy  .5"^ 

"I  think,  Betty,  the  hills  must  keep  their  ot^ti  secrets," 
said  the  bishop. 

His  little  wife  compressed  her  lips,  glanced  over  the 
hedge  at  the  young  man  who  happened  at  the  moment 
to  have  straightened  from  his  bent  position  among  the 
plants  and  was  gazing  at  their  guest,  then  resumed  her 
sewing. 

"Is  it  something  I  must  not  be  told.^"  asked  David, 
quietly.  "But  I  may  have  my  suspicions.  Naturally 
we  can't  help  that." 

"I  think  it  is  better  to  know  the  truth.  I  don't  like 
suspicions.  They  are  sure  to  lead  to  harm.  James,  let 
me  put  it  to  the  doctor  as  I  see  it,  and  see  what  he  thinks 
of  it." 

"As  you  please,  dear." 

**It's  like  this.  Have  you  seen  anything  of  that  girl 
or  observed  her  much  ?  " 

"I  certainly  have." 

"Then,  of  course,  you  can  see  that  she  is  one  of  the  best 
of  the  mountain  people,  can't  you  '^  Well  !  She  has 
promised  to  marry  —  promised  to  marry  —  think  of  it ! 
one  of  the  wildest,  most  reckless  of  those  mountain  bovs, 
one  that  she  knows  very  well  has  been  in  illicit  distilling. 


134  The  Mountain  Girl 

He  is  a  lawbreaker  in  that  way ;  and,  more  than  that,  he 
drinks,  and  in  a  drunken  row  he  shot  dead  his  friend." 

"All!"  David  rose,  turned  away,  and  again  paced  the 
piazza.  Then  he  returned  to  his  seat.  "I  see.  The 
young  man  I  tried  to  help  off  when  I  first  arrived." 

"Yes.     There  he  is." 

*'I  see.     Handsome  type." 

"He's  down  here  now,  keeping  quiet.  How  long  it  will 
last,  no  one  knows.  Justice  is  lax  in  the  mountains.  His 
father  shot  three  or  four  men  before  he  died  himself  of 
a  gunshot  wound  which  he  received  while  resisting  the 
ofiicers  of  the  law.  If  there's  a  man  left  in  the  family  to 
follow  this  thing  up,  Frale  will  be  hunted  down  and  arrested 
or  shot;  otherwise,  when  things  have  cooled  off  a  little 
up  there,  he  will  go  back  and  open  up  the  old  business,  and 
the  tragedy  will  be  repeated.  James,  you  know  how  often 
after  the  best  you  could  do  and  all  their  promises,  they 
go  back  to  it .?" 

"I  admit  it's  always  a  question.  They  don't  seem  to 
be  content  in  the  low  country.  I  think  it  is  often  a  sort 
of  natural  gravitation  back  to  the  mountains  where  they 
were  born  and  bred,  more  than  it  is  depravity." 

"I  know,  James,  but  that  excuse  won't  help  Cassandra.'* 

"AMiv  did  she  do  it.'^"  asked  David.  "She  must  have 
known  to  v\4iat  such  a  marriage  would  bring  her." 

"Do  it  ?  That  is  the  sort  of  girl  she  is.  If  she  thought 
she  ought,  she  would  leap  over  that  fall  there." 

"But  wh}^  should  she  think  she  ought  ?  Had  she  given 
her — promise — "  David  saw  her  as  she  appeared  to  him 
when  she  had  said  that  word  to  him  on  the  mountain,  and 
it  silenced  him,  but  only  for  a  moment.  He  would  learn 
all  he  could  of  her  motives  now.  He  must  —  he  would 
know.  "I  mean  before  he  did  this,  before  she  went  away 
to  study  —  had  she  made  him  such  a  —  promise  ?  " 

"No.  You  tell  him  about  it,  James.  You  have  seen 
her  and  talked  with  her.  They  were  quarrelling  about  her, 
as  I  understand,  and  she  thinks  because  she  was  the  cause 
of  the  deed  she  must  help  him  make  retribution.  Isn't 
that  it,  James  ?  She  knows  perfectly  well  what  it  means 
for  her,  for  she  has  had  her  aspirations.  I  can  see  it  all. 
Frale  says  he  w^as  not  drunk  nor  his  friend  either.  He 
says  the  other  man  claimed  —  but  I  won't  go  into  that  — 


David  visits  the  Bishop  135 

only  Cassandra  promised  him  before  God,  he  says,  that  if 
he  would  repent,  she  would  marry  him.  xVnd  when  she 
was  here  she  used  to  talk  about  the  wav  those  women  live. 
How  her  own  mother  has  worked  and  aged  !  ^^  hy,  she 
is  not  yet  sixty.  You  have  seen  how  they  live  in  their 
wretched  little  cabins.  Doctor;  that's  what  Frale  would 
doom  her  to.  He  never  in  life  will  understand  her.  He'll 
grow  old  like  his  father,  —  a  passionate,  ignorant,  untamed 
animal,  and  worse,  for  he  would  be  drunken  as  well.  He's 
been  drunk  twice  since  he  came  down  here.  James,  you 
know  they  think  it's  perfectly  right  to  get  drunk  Saturday 
afternoon." 

*' Yes,  it  seems  a  terrible  waste ;  but  if  she  has  children, 
she  will  be  able  to  do  more  for  them  than  her  mother  has 
done  for  her,  and  they  will  have  her  inheritance ;  so  her 
life  can't  be  wholly  wasted,  even  if  she  is  not  able  to  live 
up  to  her  aspirations." 

"James  Towers!  I  —  that  —  it's  because  you  are  a 
man  that  you  can  talk  so  !  I'm  ashamed,  and  you  a 
bishop  !  I  wish  — "  Betty's  eyes  were  full  of  angry  tears. 
*'I  only  wish  you  were  a  woman.  Slowly  improve  the  race 
by  bearing  children  —  giving  them  her  inheritance  !  How 
would  she  bear  them  ?  Year  after  year  —  ill  fed,  half 
clothed,  slaving  to  raise  enough  to  hold  their  souls  in  their 
bodies,  bringing  them  into  the  world  for  a  brute  who  knows 
only  enough  to  make  corn  whiskey  —  to  sell  it — and  drink 
it  —  and  reproduce  his  kind  —  when  —  when  she  knows 
all  the  time  what  ought  to  be !  Oh,  James,  James, 
think  of  it ! " 

"My  dear,  my  dear,  you  forget,  he  has  promised  to 
repent  and  live  a  different  life.  If  he  does,  things  will  be 
better  than  we  now  see  them.  If  he  does  not  change,  then 
we  may  interfere  —  perhaps." 

*'I  know,  James.  But  —  but  —  suppose  he  repents  and 
she  becomes  his  wife,  and  puts  aside  all  her  natural  tastes, 
and  the  studies  she  loves,  and  goes  on  living  v/ith  him  there 
on  the  home  place,  and  he  does  the  best  he  can  —  even. 
Don't  you  see  that  her  nature  is  fine  and  —  and  so  dif- 
ferent —  even  at  the  best,  James,  for  her  it  will  be  death 
in  life.  And  then  there  is  the  terrible  chance,  after  all, 
that  he  might  go  back  and  be  like  his  father  before  him, 
and  then  what  ?  " 


136  The  Mountain  Girl 

"Well,  their  lives  and  destinies  are  not  in  our  hands; 
we  can  only  watch  out  for  them  and  help  them." 

"James,  he  has  been  drunk  twice  !" 

"Yes,  yes,  Betty,  my  Httle  tempest,  and  if  he  gets  drunk 
twice  more,  and  twice  more,  she  will  still  forgive  him  until 
seventy  times  seven.  We  must  make  her  see  that  unless 
he  keeps  his  promise  to  her,  she  must  give  him  up." 

"Of  course.  I  suppose  that's  all  we  can  do.  I  —  don't 
know  what  you'll  think  of  me.  Doctor  Thryng;  I'm  a 
dreadful  scold.     If  James  were  not  an  angel  — " 

"It's  perfectly  delicious.  I  would  rather  hear  you  scold 
than  — " 

"Than  hear  James  preach,"  laughed  the  bishop.  "I 
agree  with  you." 

"I  agree  with  her,"  said  David,  emphatically.  "It 
ought  to  be  stopped  if  — " 

"If  it  ought  to  be,  it  will  be.  T\Tiat  do  you  think  she 
said  to  me  about  it  when  I  went  to  reason  with  her  ?  '  If 
Christ  can  forgive  and  stand  such  as  he,  I  can.  It  is  laid 
on  my  soul  to  do  this.'     I  had  no  more  to  say." 

"That  is  one  point  of  view,  but  we  mustn't  lose  sight  of 
the  practical,  either.  To  be  his  wife  and  bear  his  children 
—  I  call  it  a  waste,  a  —  '* 

"Yes,  yes.  So  it  is."  And  what  more  could  the  bishop 
say  .f^  After  a  little,  he  added,  "But  still  we  must  not 
forget  that  he,  too,  is  a  human  soul  and  has  a  value  as  great 
as  hers." 

"According  to  your  viewpoint,  but  not  to  mine  —  not 
to  mine.  If  a  man  is  enslaved  to  his  own  appetites,  he  has 
no  right  to  enslave  another  to  them." 

The  following  day  David  took  himself  back  to  his  hermi- 
tage, setting  aside  all  persuasions  to  remain. 

"Don't  make  a  recluse  of  yourself,"  begged  the  bishop's 
wife.  "The  amenities  of  life  can't  always  be  dispensed 
with,   and  we  need  you,  James  and   I,   you   and  your 


music.'* 


David  laughed.  "I'm  too  fatally  human  to  become 
a  recluse,  and  as  for  the  amenities,  they  are  not  all  of  one 
order,  you  know.  I  find  plenty  of  scope  for  exercising 
them  on  others,  and  I  often  submit  to  having  them  exer- 
cised on  me,  —  after  their  own  ideas."  He  laughed  again. 
"I  wish  you  could  look  into  my  larder.     You'd  find  me 


David  visits  the  Bishop  137 

provided  with  all  the  hills  afford.  They  have  loaded  me 
with  gifts." 

"No  wonder  !  I  know  what  your  life  up  there  means  to 
them,  taking  care  of  their  mothers  and  babies,  and  sitting 
up  with  them  nights,  going  to  them  when  they  are  in 
trouble,  rain  or  shine,  and  visiting  them  in  their  bare, 
wretched,  crowded  homes." 

"It  wouldn't  be  so  bad  often,  if  it  weren't  that  when  a 
family  is  in  serious  trouble  or  has  a  case  needing  quiet  and 
care,  the  sympathies  of  all  their  relatives  are  roused,  and 
they  come  crowding  in.  In  one  case,  the  father  was  ill 
with  pneumonia.  I  did  all  I  could  for  him,  and  next  day 
—  would  you  believe  it  .^^  —  I  found  his  sister  and  her  '  old 
man'  and  their  three  youngsters,  his  old  mother  and  a 
brother  and  a  widowed  sister,  all  camped  down  on  them, 
all  in  one  room.  The  sister  sat  by  the  fire  nursing  her 
three-months-old  baby,  his  mother  was  smoking  at  her 
side,  and  the  sick  man's  six  little  children  and  their  three 
cousins  were  raising  Ned,  in  and  out,  with  three  or  four 
hounds.  Not  one  of  the  visitors  was  helping,  or,  as  they 
say  up  there,  'doing  a  hck,'  but  the  vdie  was  cooking  for 
the  vrhole  raft  when  her  husband  needed  all  her  care. 
Marvellous  ideas  they  have,  some  of  them." 

"You  ought  to  write  out  some  of  your  experiences." 

"Oh,  I  can't.  It  would  seem  like  a  sort  of  betrayal  of 
friendship.  They  have  adopted  me,  so  to  speak,  and  are 
so  naive  and  kind,  and  have  trusted  me  —  I  think  they 
are  my  friends.     I  may  be  very  odd  —  you  know." 

"I  know  how  you  feel,"  said  Betty. 

The  bishop's  little  daughter  had  assumed  the  proprie- 
torship of  the  doctor.  She  even  preferred  his  companion- 
ship to  that  of  her  puppy.  She  clung  to  his  hand  as  he 
walked  away,  pulling  and  swinging  upon  his  arm  to  coax 
him  back.  He  took  her  in  his  arms  and  carried  her  out 
upon  the  walk,  the  small  dog  barking  and  snapping  at  his 
heels,  as  David  threatened  to  bear  his  tyrannical  young 
mistress  away  to  the  station. 

"Doggie  wants  you  to  leave  me  here,"  she  cried,  pound- 
ing him  vigorously  with  her  two  little  fists. 

He  brought  her  back  and  placed  her  on  the  broad,  flat 
top  of  the  high  gate-post.  "Very  well,  doggie  may  have 
you.     I  will  leave  you  here." 


138  The  Mountain  Girl 


<(' 


Doggie  wants  you  to  stay,  too."  She  held  him  with 
her  small  arms  about  his  neck. 

"Well,  doggie  can't  have  me."  He  unclinched  her 
chubby  hands,  crossed  them  in  her  lap,  and  held  them  fast 
while  he  kissed  her  tanned  and  rosy  cheek.  "Good-by, 
you  young  rogue,"  he  said,  and  strode  away. 

"Come  and  lift  me  down,"  she  wailed.  But  he  knew 
well  she  could  scramble  down  by  herself  when  she  chose, 
and  walked  on.  She  continued  to  call  after  him  ;  then, 
spying  Frale  in  the  wood  yard,  she  imperatively  summoned 
him  to  her  aid,  and  trotted  at  his  side  back  to  the  wood- 
pile, where  they  sat  comfortably  upon  a  log  and  visited 
together. 

They  were  the  best  of  friends  and  chattered  with  each 
other  as  if  both  were  children.  In  the  slender  shadow 
of  a  juniper  tree  that  stood  like  a  sentinel  in  the  corner 
of  the  wood  yard  they  sat,  where  a  high  board  fence  sepa- 
rated them  from  the  back  street. 

The  bishop's  place  was  well  planted,  and  this  corner  had 
been  the  quarters  of  the  house  servants  in  slave  times. 
It  was  one  of  Frale's  duties  to  pile  here,  for  winter  use,  the 
firewood  which  he  cut  in  short  lengths  for  the  kitchen  fire, 
and  long  lengths  for  the  open  fireplaces. 

He  hated  the  hampered  village  life,  and  round  of  small 
duties  —  the  weeding  in  the  garden,  cleaning  of  piazzas 
and  windows,  and  the  sweeping  of  the  paths.  The  wood- 
cutting was  not  so  bad,  but  the  rest  he  held  in  contempt 
as  women's  work.  He  longed  to  throw  his  gun  in  the  hol- 
low of  his  arm  and  tramp  off  over  his  own  mountains.  At 
night  he  often  wept,  for  homesickness,  and  wished  he  might 
spend  a  day  tending  still,  or  lying  on  a  ridge  watching  the 
trail  below  for  intruders  on  his  privacy. 

The  joy  of  life  had  gone  out  for  him.  He  thought  con- 
tinually of  Cassandra  and  desired  her ;  and  his  soul  wearied 
for  her,  until  he  was  tempted  to  go  back  to  the  mountains 
at  all  risks,  merely  for  a  sight  of  her.  Painfully  he  had 
tried  to  learn  to  write,  working  at  the  copies  Betty  Towers 
had  set  for  him,  —  and  certainly  she  had  done  all  her 
conscientious  heart  prompted  to  interest  him  and  keep 
him  away  from  the  village  loungers.  He  had  even  pro- 
gressed far  enough  to  send  two  horribly  spelled  missives 
to  Cassandra,  feeling  great  pride  in  them.     And  now  he 


David  visits  the  Bishop  139 

had  begun  to  weary  of  learning.  To  be  able  to  write  those 
badly  scrawled  notes  was  in  his  eyes  surely  enough  to  dis- 
tinguish him  from  his  companions  at  home ;  of  what  use 
was  more  ? 

"What's  that  you  are  tossing  up  in  the  air?  Let  me 
see  it,"  demanded  the  child,  as  Frale  tossed  and  caught 
again  a  small,  bright  object.  He  kept  on  tossing  it  and 
catching  it  away  from  the  two  little  hands  stretched  out 
to  receive  it.  "Give  it  to  me.  Give  it  to  me,  Frale.  Let 
me  see  it." 

He  dropped  it  lightly  in  her  palm.  "Don't  you  lose 
hit.     That  thar's  somethin'  'at's  got  a  charm  to  hit." 

"\\Tiat's  a  'charm  to  hit'  ?     I  don't  see  any  charm." 

Then  Frale  laughed  aloud.  He  took  it  with  his  thumb 
and  forefinger  and  held  it  between  his  eye  and  the  sun. 
"Is  that  the  way  you  see  the  'charm  to  hit'  ?   Let  me  try." 

But  he  slipped  it  in  his  pocket,  first  placing  it  in  a  small 
bag  which  he  drew  up  tightly  with  a  string.  "Hit  hain't 
nothing  you  kin  see.  Hit's  only  a  charm  'at  makes  hit 
plumb  sure  to  kill  anybody  'at  hit  hits.  Hit's  plumb  sure 
to  hit  an'  plumb  sure  to  kill,  too." 

"Oh,  Frale  !  What  if  it  had  hit  me  when  you  threw  it 
up  that  way  —  and  —  killed  me  ?  Then  you'd  be  sorry, 
wouldn't  you,  Frale  .f^" 

"Hit  nevah  wouldn't  kill  a  girl  —  a  nice  little  girl  — 
like  you  be.  Hit's  charmed  that-a-way,  'at  hit  won't  kill 
nobody  what  I  don't  want  hit  to." 

"Then  what  do  you  keep  it  in  your  pocket  for?  You 
don't  want  to  kill  anybody,  do  you,  Frale  ?" 

"Naw  —  I  reckon  not ;   not  'thout  I  have  to." 

"But  you  don't  have  to,  do  you,  Frale?"  piped  the 
child. 

He  rose,  and  selecting  an  armful  of  stove  wood  carried  it 
into  the  shed  and  began  packing  it  away.  Dorothy  sat 
still  on  the  log,  her  elbows  on  her  knees,  her  chin  in  her 
hands,  meditating.  A  tall  man  slouched  by  and  peered 
over  the  high  board  fence  at  her.  His  eyes  roved  all 
about  the  place  eagerly,  keen  and  black.  His  matted  hair 
hung  long  beneath  his  soft  felt  hat.  The  child  looked  up 
at  him  with  fearless,  questioning  glance,  then  trotted  in  to 
her  friend. 

Frale,  did  you  see  that  man  lookin'  over  the  fence? 


(< ' 


140  The  Mountain  Girl 

You  think  he  was  lookin'  for  you,  Frale  ?  Come  see  who 
'tis.     P'r'aps  he's  a  friend  of  yours." 

*' Dorothy,  Dorothy,"  called  her  mother  from  the  piazza, 
and  the  child  bounded  away,  her  puppy  yelping  and  leap- 
ing at  her  side.  The  tall  man  turned  at  the  corner  and 
looked  back  at  the  child. 

The  bishop's  place  occupied  one  corner  of  the  block,  and 
the  fence  with  a  hedge  beneath  it  ran  the  whole  length  of 
two  sides.  Slowly  sauntering  along  the  second  side,  the 
gaunt,  hungry-eyed  man  continued  his  way,  searching 
every  part  of  the  yard  and  garden,  even  endeavoring,  with 
backward,  furtive  glances,  to  see  into  the  woodhouse, 
where  in  the  darkness  Frale  crouched,  once  more  pallid 
with  abject  fear,  peering  through  the  crack  where  on  its 
hinges  the  door  swung  half  open. 

As  the  man  disappeared  down  the  straggling  village 
street,  Frale  dropped  down  on  the  wheelbarrow  and 
buried  his  haggard  face  in  his  hands.  A  long  time  he  sat 
thus,  until  the  dinner-hour  was  past,  and  black  Carrie 
had  to  send  Dorothy  to  call  him.  Then  he  rose,  but  in 
the  place  of  the  white  and  haunted  look  was  one  of  stub- 
born recklessness.  He  strolled  to  the  house  with  the  non- 
chalant air  of  one  who  fears  no  foes,  but  rather  glories  in 
meeting  them,  and  sat  himself  down  at  his  place  by  the 
kitchen  table,  where  he  bantered  and  badgered  Carrie, 
who  waited  on  him  reluctantly,  with  contemptuous  tosses 
of  her  woolly  head.  From  the  day  of  his  first  appearance 
there  had  been  war  between  them,  and  now  Frale  knew 
that  if  the  stranger  asked  her,  she  would  gladly  and  slyly 
inform  against  him. 

The  afternoon  wore  on.  Again  Frale  sat  on  the  wheel- 
barrow, thinking,  thinking.  He  took  the  small  bag  from 
his  pocket  and  felt  of  the  bullet  through  the  thin  covering, 
then  replaced  it,  and,  drawing  forth  another  bag,  began 
counting  his  money  over  and  over.  There  it  was,  all  he 
had  saved,  five  dollars  in  bills,  and  a  few  quarters  and 
dimes. 

He  did  not  like  to  leave  the  shelter  of  the  shed,  and  his 
eyes  showed  only  the  narrow  glint  of  blue  as,  with  half- 
closed  lids,  he  still  peered  out  and  watched  the  street  where 
his  enemy  had  disappeared.  Suddenly  he  rose  and  climbed 
with  swift,  catlike  movements  up  the  ladder  stairs  behind 


David  visits  the  Bishop  141 

him,  which  led  to  his  sleeping  loft.  There  he  rapidly 
donned  his  best  suit  of  dyed  homespun,  tied  his  few  remain- 
ing articles  of  clothing  in  a  large  red  kerchief,  and  before  a  bit 
of  mirror  arranged  his  tie  and  hair  to  look  as  like  as  possible 
to  the  .village  youth  of  Farington.  The  distinguishing 
silken  lock  that  would  fall  over  his  brow  had  grown  again, 
since  he  had  shorn  it  away  in  Doctor  Thryng's  cabin. 
Now  he  thrust  it  well  up  under  his  soft  felt  hat,  and,  taking 
his  bundle,  descended.  Again  his  eyes  searched  up  and 
down  the  street  and  all  about  the  house  and  yard  before 
he  ventured  out  in  the  daylight. 

Dorothy  and  her  dog  came  bounding  down  the  kitchen 
steps.  She  carried  two  great  fried  cakes  in  her  little  hands, 
warm  from  the  Hot  fat,  and  she  laughed  with  glee  as  she 
danced  toward  him. 

"Frale,  Frale.  I  stole  these,  I  did,  for  you.  I  told 
Carrie  I  w^anted  two  for  you,  an'  she  said  *  G'long,  chile.'" 
She  thrust  them  in  his  hands. 

"What's  the  matter,  Frale?  What  you  all  dressed  up 
for  ?  This  isn't  Sunday,  Frale.  Is  they  going  to  be  a 
circus,  Frale,  is  they  .f^"  She  poured  forth  her  questions 
rapidly,  as  she  hopped  from  one  foot  to  the  other.  *'Will 
you  take  me,  Frale,  if  it's  a  circus  ?  I'll  ask  mamma.  I 
want  to  see  the  el'phant." 

'Tain't  no  circus,''  he  replied  grimly. 

"What's  the  matter,  Frale  ?  Don't  you  like  your  fried 
cakes  ?  Then  why  don't  you  eat  them  ?  What  you 
wrapping  them  up  for  ?  You  ought  to  say  thank  you, 
when  I  bring  you  nice  cakes  'at  I  went  an'  stole  for  you," 
she  remonstrated  severely. 

His  throat  worked  convulsively  as  he  stood,  now  looking 
at  the  child,  now  watching  the  street.  Suddenly  he  lifted 
her  in  his  arms  and  buried  his  face  in  her  gingham 
apron. 

*'I  had  a  little  sister  oncet,  only  she's  growed  up  now, 
an'  she  hain't  my  little  sister  any  more."  He  kissed  her 
brown  cheek  tenderly,  even  as  David  had  done,  and  set  her 
gently  down  on  her  two  stubby  feet.  "You  run  in  an' 
tell  yer  maw  thank  you,  fer  me,  will  ye  ?  Mind,  now. 
Listen  at  me  whilst  I  tell  you  what  to  tell  yer  paw  an'  maw 
fer  me.  Say,  *  Frale  seen  a  houn'  dog  on  his  scent,  an'  he's 
gone  home  to  git  shet  of  him.'  " 


142  The  Mountain  Girl 

"  V^Tiere's  the  *  houn'  dog,'  Frale  ?  "  She  gazed  fearfully 
about. 

"He's  gone  now.     He  won't  bite  —  not  you,  he  won't." 

"Oh,  Frale  !     I  wish  it  was  a  circus." 

"Yas,"  drawled  the  young  man,  with  a  sullen  smile 
curling  his  lips,  "may  be  hit  be  a  sort  of  a  circus.  Kin  ye 
remember  what  I  tol'  you  to  tell  yer  paw  .^" 

"You  —  you  seen  a  houn'  dog  on  —  on  a  cent  —  how 
could  he  be  on  a  cent  ?'' 

"Say,  *  Frale  seen  a  houn'  dog  on  his  scent,  an'  he's  gone 
home  to  git  shet  of  him.'  " 

"Frale  seen  a  houn'  dog  on  —  on  a  —  a  cent,  an'  — 
an'  —  an'  he's  gone  home  to  —  to  get  shet  of  him.  TMiat's 
*  get  shet  of  him,'  Frale  ?  " 

"Nevah  mind,  honey;  yer  paw'll  know.  Run  in  an' 
tell  him  'fore  you  forgit  hit.     Good-by." 

She  danced  gayly  off  toward  the  house,  but  turned  to  call 
back  at  him,  as  he  stood  watching  her.  "Are  you  going  to 
hit  the  '  houn' '  dog  with  the  pretty  ball,  Frale  ?  " 

"I  reckon."  He  laughed  and  strode  off  toward  the  one 
small  station  in  the  opposite  direction  from  the  way  the 
man  had  taken. 

Frale  knew  well  where  he  had  gone.  On  the  outskirts 
of  the  village  was  a  small  grove  of  sycamore  and  gum 
trees,  by  a  little  stream,  where  it  was  the  custom  for  the 
mountain  people  to  camp  with  their  canvas-covered 
wagons.  There  they  would  build  their  fires  on  a  charred 
place  between  stones,  and  heat  their  coffee.  There  they 
would  feed  their  oxen  or  mule  team,  tied  to  the  rear  wheels 
of  their  wagons,  with  corn  thrown  on  the  ground  before 
them.  At  nightfall  they  would  crawl  under  the  canvas 
cover  and  sleep  on  the  corn  fodder  within. 

Often  beneath  the  fodder  might  be  found  a  few  jugs  of 
raw  corn  whiskey  hidden  away,  while  the  articles  they  had 
brought  down  for  sale  or  barter  at  the  village  stores  were 
placed  on  top  in  plain  view.  Sometimes  they  brought 
vegetables,  or  baskets  of  splints  and  willow  withes,  made 
by  their  women,  or  they  might  have  a  few  yards  of  home- 
spun towelling. 

The  man  Frale  had  seen  was  the  older  brother  of  his 
friend  Ferdinand  Teasley,  and  well  Frale  knew  that  he  was 
camped  with  his  ox  team  down  by  the  spring,  where  it  had 


David  visits  the  Bishop  143 

been  his  habit  to  wait  for  the  cover  of  darkness,  when  he 
could  steal  forth  and  leave  his  jugs  where  the  money  might 
be  found  for  them,  placed  on  some  rock  or  stump  or  fallen 
trunk  half  concealed  by  laurel  shrubs.  How  often  had  the 
])roducts  of  Frale's  still  been  conveyed  down  the  moun- 
tain by  that  same  ox  team,  in  that  same  unwieldy  vehicle  ! 

Giles  Teasley's  cabin  and  patch  of  soil,  planted  always 
to  corn,  was  a  long  distance  from  his  father's  mill,  and  also 
from  his  brother's  still,  hence  he  could  with  the  more 
safety  dispose  of  their  illicit  drink. 

In  the  slow  but  deadly  sure  manner  of  his  people,  he  had 
but  just  aroused  himself  to  the  fact  that  his  brother's 
murderer  was  still  alive  and  the  deed  unavenged;^  and 
Frale  knew  he  had  come  now,  not  to  dispose  of  the  whiskey, 
since  the  still  had  been  destroyed,  but  to  find  his  brother's 
slayer  and  accord  him  the  justice  of  the  hills. 

To  the  mountain  people  the  processes  of  the  law  seemed 
vague  and  uncertain.  They  preferred  their  own  methods. 
A  well-loaded  gun,  a  sure  aim,  and  a  few  months  of  hid- 
ing among  relatives  and  friends  until  the  vigilance  of  the 
emissaries  of  the  law  had  subsided  was  the  rule  with  them. 
Thus  had  Frale's  father  tTsdce  escaped  either  prison  or  the 
rope,  and  during  the  last  four  years  of  his  life  he  had  never 
once  ventured  from  his  mountain  home  for  a  day  at  the 
settlements  below;  while  among  his  friends  his  prowess 
and  his  skill  in  evading  pursuit  were  his  glory. 

Now  it  was  Frale's  thought  to  dare  the  worst,  —  to  walk 
to  the  station  like  any  village  youth,  buy  his  ticket,  and  take 
the  train  for  Carew's  Crossing,  and  from  there  make  his 
way  to  his  haunt  while  yet  Giles  Teasley  was  taking  his 
first  sleep. 

He  reasoned,  and  rightly,  that  his  enemy  would  linger 
about  several  days  searching  for  him,  and  never  dream  of 
his  having  made  his  escape  by  means  of  the  train.  Since 
the  first  scurry  of  search  was  over,  it  was  no  longer  the 
officers  of  the  law  Frale  feared,  but  this  same  lank,  ill- 
favored  mountaineer,  who  was  now  warming  his  coffee 
and  eating  his  raw  salt  pork  and  corn-bread  by  the  stream, 
while  his  drooling  cattle  stood  near,  sleepily  chewing  their 
cuds. 


CHAPTER  XV 

IN  WHICH  JERRY  CAREW  GIVES  DAVID  HIS  VIEWS  ON 
FUTURE  PUNISHMENT,  AND  LITTLE  HOYLE  PAYS  HIM 
A   VISIT   AND    IS   MADE   HAPPY 

Uncle  Jerry  Carew  had  led  David's  horse  down  to  the 
station  ready  saddled  to  meet  him,  according  to  agreement, 
and  side  by  side  they  rode  back,  the  old  man  beguiling  the 
way  with  talk  of  mountain  affairs  most  interesting  to  the 
young  doctor,  who  led  him  on  from  tales  of  his  own  youthful 
prowess,  "  when  catamounts  and  painters  war  nigh  as 
frequent  as  woodchucks  is  now,"  until  he  felt  he  knew 
pretty  well  the  history  of  all  the  mountain  side. 

"Yas,  when  I  war  a  littlin',  no  highah'n  my  horse's 
knees,  I  kin  remember  thar  war  a  gatherin'  fer  a  catamount 
hunt  on  Reed's  Hill  ovah  to'ds  Pisgah.  Catamounts  war 
mighty  pesterin'  creeters  them  days.  Ev'y  man  able  to 
tote  a  gun  war  thar.  01'  man  Caswell  —  that  war  Miz 
Merlin  —  she  war  only  a  mite  of  a  baby  then  —  her  gran'- 
paw,  he  war  the  oldest  man  in  th'  country ;  he  went  an' 
carried  his  rifle  his  paw  fit  in  th'  Revolution  with.  He  fit 
at  King's  Mountain,  an'  all  about  here  he  fit." 

"Did  he  fight  in  the  Civil  War,  too  ?" 

"Her  gran'paw's  paw?  No.  He  war  too  ol'  fer  that, 
but  his  gran'son  Caswell,  he  fit  in  hit,  an'  he  nevah  come 
back,  neither.  01'  Miz  Caswell  —  Cassandry  Merlin's 
gran'maw,  she  lived  a  widow  nigh  on  to  thirty  year.  She 
an'  her  daughter  —  that's  ol'  Miz  Farwell  that  is  now  — 
they  lived  thar  an'  managed  the  place  ontwell  she  married 
Merlin." 

"You  knew  her  first  husband,  then  ?^^ 

"Yas,  know  him.?  Ev'ybody  knew  Thad  Merlin.  He 
come  fom  ovah  Pisgah  way,  an'  he  took  Marthy  thar. 
Hit's  quare  how  things  goes.  I  always  liked  Thad  Merlin. 
The'  wa'n't  no  harm  in  him." 

David  saw  a  quaint,  whimsical  smile  play  about  the  old 

144 


Hoyle  visits  David  145 

man*s  mouth.  "He  war  a  preacher  —  kind  of  a  mixtur 
of  a  preacher  an'  teacher  an'  hunter.  Couldn't  anybody 
beat  him  huntin'  —  and  farmin'  —  well  he  could  farm,  too, 
—  better'n  most.  He  done  well  whatever  he  done,  but 
he  had  a  right  quare  way.  He  built  that  thar  rock  wall  an' 
he  'lowed  he'd  have  hit  run  plumb  'round  the  place. 

*'  He  war  a  fiddler,  and  he'd  build  awhile,  and  fetch  his 
fiddle  —  he  warn't  right  strong  —  an'  then  he'd  set  thar 
on  the  wall  an'  fiddle  to  the  birds ;  an'  the  wild  creeturs, 
they'd  come  an'  hear  to  him.  I  seen  squerrels  settin'  on 
end  hearkin'  to  him,  myself.  Arter  a  while,  folks  begun  to 
think  'at  he  didn't  preach  the  right  kind  of  religion,  an' 
they  wouldn't  go  to  hear  him  no  more  without  hit  war  to 
listen  did  he  say  anythin'  they  could  fin'  fault  with.  'Pears 
like  they  got  in  that-a-way  they  didn'  go  fer  nothin'  else. 
Hit  cl'ar  plumb  broke  him  all  up.  He  quit  preachin'  an' 
took  more  to  fiddlin',  an'  he  sorter  grew  puny,  an'  one  day 
jes'  natch'ly  lay  down  an'  died,  all  fer  nothin',  'at  anybody 
could  see." 

"What  was  the  matter  with  his  preaching.'^"  asked 
David,  and  again  the  whimsical  smile  played  around  the 
old  man's  mouth,  and  his  thin  lips  twitched. 

"  I  reckon  thar  wa'n't  'nuff  hell  'n'  damnation  in  hit.  Our 
people  here  on  the  mountain,  they're  right  kind  an'  soft 
therselves.  They  don't  whop  ther  chillen,  nor  do  nothin' 
much  'cept  a  shootin'  now  an'  then,  but  that's  only 
amongst  the  men.  The  women  tends  mostly  to  the  re- 
ligion, an'  they  likes  a  heap  o'  hell  'n'  damnation.  Hit 
sorter  stirs  'em  up  an'  gives  'em  somethin'  to  chaw  on,  an' 
keeps  'em  contented  like.  They  has  somethin'  to  threat'n 
ther  men  folks  with  an'  keep  ther  chillen  straight  on,  an' 
a  place  to  sen'  ther  neighbors  to  when  they  don't  suit. 
Yas,  hit's  right  handy  fer  th'  women.  I  reckon  they 
couldn't  git  on  without  hit." 

*'Do  they  think  they  will  have  bodies  that  can  be  hurt 
by  any  such  thing  in  the  next  world  .f^" 

"I  reckon  so.  But  preacher  Merlin,  he  said  that  thar 
war  paths  o'  light  an'  paths  o'  darkness,  an'  that  eve'y  man 
he  'bided  right  whar  he  war  at  when  he  died.  Ef  he  hed 
tuk  the  path  o'  darkness,  thar  he  war  in  hit ;  but  ef  he  hed 
tuk  the  path  o'  light  whar  war  heaven,  then  he  war  thar. 
An'  he  said  the   Lord  nevah  made  no   hell,  hit  war  jes' 


146  The  Mountain  Girl 

our  own  selves  made  sech  es  that,  an*  he  took  an*  cut 
that  thar  place  cl'ar  plumb  out'n  the  Scripturs  an'  the 
worl'  to  come.  But  he  sure  hed  a  heap  o'  larnin',  only 
some  said  a  sight  on  hit  war  heathen,  an'  that  war  why  he 
lef  all  the  hell  an'  damnation  outen  his  religion." 

Thus  enlightened  concerning  many  things,  both  of  this 
particular  bit  of  mountain  world,  which  was  all  the  world 
to  his  companion,  and  of  the  world  to  come,  Thryng  rode 
on,  quietly  amused. 

Sometimes  he  dismounted  to  investigate  plants  new  to 
him,  or  to  gather  a  bit  of  moss  or  fungi  or  parasite  —  any- 
thing that  promised  an  elucidating  hour  with  his  splendid 
microscope.  For  these  he  always  carried  at  the  pommel 
of  his  saddle  an  air-tight  box.  The  mountain  people  sup- 
posed he  collected  such  things  for  the  compounding  of  his 
drugs. 

When  they  reached  the  Fall  Place,  David  continued 
along  the  main  road  below  and  took  a  trail  farther  on, 
merely  a  foot  trail  little  used,  to  his  eyrie.  He  had  not 
seen  Cassandra  since  they  had  walked  together  down 
from  Hoke  Belew's  place.  He  had  gone  to  Farington 
partly  to  avoid  seeing  her,  nor  did  he  wish  to  see  her  again 
until  he  should  have  so  mastered  himself  as  to  betray 
nothing  by  his  manner  that  might  embarrass  her  or  remind 
her  painfully  of  their  last  interview,  knowing  he  must  elimi- 
nate self  to  reestablish  their  previous  relations. 

David  rode  directly  to  his  log  stable,  put  up  his  horse, 
then  unslung  his  box  and  walked  with  it  toward  his  cabin. 
Suddenly  he  stopped.  From  the  thick  shrubbery  where 
he  stood  he  could  see  in  at  the  large  window  where  his 
microscope  was  placed  quite  through  his  cabin  into  the 
light,  white  canvas  room  beyond.  Before  the  fireplace, 
clearly  relieved  against  the  whiteness  of  the  farther  room, 
stood  Cassandra,  gazing  intently  at  something  she  held  in 
her  hand.  David  recognized  it  as  a  small,  framed  picture 
of  his  mother  —  a  delicately  painted  miniature.  He  kept 
it  always  on  the  shelf  near  which  she  was  standing.  He 
saw  her  reach  up  and  replace  it,  then  brush  her  hand 
quickly  across  her  eyes,  and  knew  she  had  been  weeping. 
He 'was  ashamed  to  stand  there  watching  her,  but  he 
could  not  move.  Always,  it  seemed  to  him,  she  was  being 
presented  to  him  thus  strongly  against  a  surrounding  halo 


Hoyle  visits  David  147 

of  light,  revealing  every  gracious  line  of  her  figure  and 
her  sweet,  clean  profile. 

He  turned  his  eyes  away,  but  as  quickly  gazed  again; 
she  had  disappeared.  He  waited,  and  again  she  passed 
between  his  eyes  and  the  light,  here  and  there,  moving 
quietly  about,  seeing  that  all  was  in  order,  as  her  custom 
was  when  she  knew  him  to  be  absent. 

He  saw  her  brushing  about  the  hearth,  carefully  wiping 
the  dust  from  his  disordered  table,  lifting  the  books,  touch- 
ing everything  tenderly  and  lightly.  His  flute  lay  there. 
She  took  it  in  her  hands  and  looked  down  at  it  solemnly, 
then  slowly  raised  it  to  her  lips.  What  '^  Was  she  going 
to  try  to  play  upon  it  ^  No,  but  she  kissed  it.  Again  and 
again  she  kissed  the  slender,  magic  wand,  hurriedly,  then 
laid  it  very  gently  down  and  with  one  backward  glance 
walked  swiftly  out  of  the  cabin  and  away  from  him,  down 
the  trail,  with  long,  easy  steps.  Only  once  more  she  drew 
her  hand  across  her  eyes,  and  with  head  held  high  moved 
rapidly  on.  Never  did  she  look  to  the  right  or  the  left  or 
she  must  have  seen  him  as  he  stood,  scarcely  breathing  and 
hard  beset  to  hold  himself  back  and  allow  her  to  pass 
him  thus. 

Now  he  knew  that  she  had  been  deeply  stirred  by  him, 
and  the  revelation  fell  upon  his  spirit,  filling  him  with 
a  joy  more  intense  than  anything  he  had  ever  felt  or  ex- 
perienced before,  so  poignantly  sweet  that  it  hurt  him. 
Had  he  indeed  entered  into  her  dreams  and  become  an 
undercurrent  in  her  life  even  as  she  had  in  his,  and  did  her 
soul  and  body  ache  for  him  as  his  for  her  ? 

Then  he  suffered  remorse  for  what  he  had  done.  How 
long  she  had  defended  herself  by  that  wall  of  impersonality 
w^ith  which  she  had  surrounded  herself  !  He  had  beaten 
down  the  ramparts  and  trampled  in  the  garden  of  her  soul. 
As  he  stood  in  the  door  of  his  cabin,  the  place  seemed  to 
breathe  of  her  presence.  She  had  made  a  veritable  bower 
of  it  for  his  return.  Every  sweet  thing  she  had  gathered 
for  him,  as  if,  out  of  her  love  and  her  sorrow,  she  had  meant 
to  bring  to  him  an  especial  blessing. 

A  shallow  basin  filled  with  wild  forget-me-nots  stood 
on  the  shelf  before  his  mother's  picture.  Ferns  and  vines 
fell  over  the  stone  mantle,  and  in  earthen  jars  of  mountain 
ware  the  early  rhododendron,  with  its  delicate,  pearly 


148  The  Mountain  Girl 

pink  blossoms,  filled  the  dark  corners.  Masses  of  the 
plumed  white  ash  shook  feathery  tassels  along  the  walls, 
making  the  air  sweet  with  their  fragrance.  Ah,  how  clean 
and  fresh  everything  was  !  All  his  disorder  was  set  to 
rights,  and  fresh  linen  was  on  his  bed  in  his  canvas 
room. 

Even  his  table  was  laid  with  his  small  store  of  dishes, 
and  food  placed  upon  it,  still  covered  in  the  basket  he  was 
now  so  accustomed  to  see.  Sweet  and  dainty  it  all  was. 
He  had  only  to  light  the  fat  pine  sticks  laid  beneath  the 
kettle  swung  above  and  make  his  tea,  and  his  meal  was 
ready.  Had  she  divined  he  would  not  stop  at  the  Fall 
Place  this  time,  when  in  the  past  it  had  been  his  custom 
to  do  so  ^  Ah,  she  knew  ;  for  is  not  the  little  winged  god 
a  wonderful  teacher  ? 

Thryng  was  humbled  in  the  very  dust  and  ashes  of  re- 
pentance as  he  sat  down  to  his  late  dinner.  The  fra- 
grance in  the  room,  all  he  ate,  everything  he  touched,  filled 
his  senses  with  her ;  and  he  —  he  had  only  brought  her 
sorrow.  He  had  come  into  her  life  but  to  bruise  her  spirit 
and  leave  her  sad  at  heart  with  a  deep  sadness  he  dared  not 
and  could  not  alleviate.  He  lifted  a  pale  purple  orchid 
she  had  placed  in  a  tumbler  at  his  hand  and  examined  it. 
Evidently  she  had  thought  this  the  choicest  of  all  the 
woodland  treasures  she  had  brought  him,  and  had  placed 
it  there,  a  sweet  message.  What  should  he  do  "^  Ah, 
what  could  he  do  ^  He  must  not  see  her  yet  —  at  least 
not  until  to-morrow. 

Later,  David  brought  in  his  specimens  and  occupied 
himself  with  his  microscope.  He  had  begun  a  careful 
study  of  certain  destructive  things.  Even  here  in  the  wild 
he  found  them,  evil  and  unwholesome,  clinging  to  the  well 
and  strong,  slowly  but  surely  sapping  the  vitality  of  those 
who  gave  them  life.  Every  evil,  he  thought,  must,  in  the 
economy  of  nature,  have  its  antidote.  So,  with  the  ardor 
of  the  scientist,  he  divided  with  care  the  nasty,  pasty 
growth  he  had  found  and  prepared  his  plates.  Systemati- 
cally he  made  drawings  and  notes  as  he  studied  the  mag- 
nified atoms  beneath  his  powerful  lens,  and  while  he  sat 
absorbed  in  his  work,  Hoyle's  childish  voice  piped  at  him 
from  the  doorway. 

"Howdy,  Doctah  Thryng." 


Hoyle  visits  David  149 

'*Why,  hello!  Howdy!"  said  David,  without  looking 
up  from  his  work. 

"What  you  got  in  that  thar  gol'  machine  ?  Kin  I  look, 
too?" 

"What  have  I  got  ?  Why  —  I've  got  a  bit  of  the  devil 
in  here." 

"Whar'dyougithim?     Huh?" 

'*0h,  I  found  him  along  the  road  between  here  and  the 
station." 

"Did  —  did  he  come  on  the  cyars  with  you?  Whar 
war  he  at  ?  Hu  come  he  in  thar  ?"  David  did  not  reply 
for  an  instant,  and  the  awed  child  drew  a  step  nearer. 
"Whar  war  he  at  ? "  he  insisted.     "  Hu  come  he  in  thar  ?  " 

"He  was  hanging  to  a  bush  as  I  came  along,  and  I  put 
him  in  my  box  and  brought  him  home  and  cut  him  up  and 
put  a  little  bit  of  him  in  here." 

Then  there  was  silence,  and  David  forgot  the  small  boy 
until  he  heard  a  deep-drawn  sigh  behind  him.  Looking  up 
for  the  first  time,  he  saw  him  standing  aloof,  a  look  of 
terror  in  his  wide  eyes  as  if  he  fain  would  run  away,  but 
could  not  from  sheer  fright.  Poor  little  mite  !  David  in 
his  playful  speech  had  not  dreamed  of  being  taken  in 
earnest.  He  drew  the  child  to  his  side,  where  he  cuddled 
gladly,  nestling  his  twisted  little  body  close,  partly  for 
protection,  and  partly  in  love. 

"You  reckon  he's  plumb  dade  ?"  David  could  feel  the 
child's  heart  beating  in  a  heavy  labored  way  against  his 
arm  as  he  held  him,  and,  pushing  his  papers  one  side,  he 
lifted  him  to  his  knee. 

"Do  I  reckon  who's  dead  ?"  he  asked  absently,  with  his 
ear  pressed  to  the  child's  back. 

"The  devil  what  you  done  brought  home  in  yuer  box." 

"Dead?  Oh,  yes.  He's  dead  —  good  and  dead.  Sit 
still  a  moment  —  so  —  now  take  a  long  breath.  A  long 
one  —  deep  —  that's   right.     Now   another  —  so." 

"Whatfer?" 
I  want  to  hear  your  heart  beat." 
Kin  you  hear  hit  ?" 
Yes  —  don't  talk,  a  minute,  —  that'll  do. " 

"What  you  want  to  hear  my  heart  beat  fer  ?  I  kin  feel 
hit.     Kin  you  feel  yourn  ?     Be  they  more'n  one  devil  ?  " 

"Heaps  of  them." 


<( ' 


<( ' 


150  The  Mountain  Girl 


(<- 


When  I  go  back,  you  reckon  I'll  find  'em  hanging  on 
the  bushes  ?  Do  they  hang  by  ther  tails,  like  'possums 
does  ?" 

Comfortable  and  happy  where  he  was,  the  little  fellow 
dreaded  the  distance  he  must  traverse  to  reach  his  home 
under  the  peculiar  phenomena  of  devils  hanging  to  the 
bushes  along  his  route. 

*'0h,  no,  no.  Here,  I'll  show  you  what  I  mean."  Then 
he  explained  carefully  to  the  child  what  he  really  meant, 
showing  him  some  of  the  strange  and  beautiful  ways  of 
nature,  and  at  last  allowing  him  to  look  into  the  micro- 
scope to  see  the  little  cells  and  rays.  As  he  patiently  and 
kindly  taught,  he  was  pleased  with  the  child's  eager,  re- 
ceptive mind  and  naive  admiration.  Towards  evening 
Hoyle  was  sent  home,  quite  at  rest  concerning  devils  and 
all  their  kin,  and  radiantly  happy  with  a  box  of  many 
colored  pencils  and  a  blank  drawing-book,  which  David 
had  brought  him  from  Farington. 

"I  kin  larn  to  make  things  like  you  b'en  makin'  with 
these,  an'  Cass,  she'll  he'p  me,"  he  cried. 

"What  is  Cass  doing  to-day  .^^ "  David  ventured. 

"She  be'n  up  here  most  all  mornin',  an'  I  he'ped  get  the 
light  ud  fer  fire,  an'  then  she  sont  me  home  to  he'p  maw 
whilst  she  stayed  to  fix  up." 

"But  now,  I  mean,  when  you  came  up  here?  " 

"Weavin'  in  the  loom  shed.  Maw,  she  has  a  lot  o' 
little  biddies.     The  ol'  hen  hatched  'em,  she  did." 

"What  have  you  done  to  your  thumb  ?"  asked  David, 
seeing  it  tied  about  with  a  rag. 

"I  plunked  hit  with  the  hammer  when  I  war  a-makin' 
houses  fer  the  biddies.     I  nailed  'em,  I  did." 

"You  made  the  chicken  coops  ?  Well,  you  are  a  clever 
little  chap.     Let  me  see  your  hand." 

"Yas,  maw  said  I  war  that,  too." 

"But  you  weren't  very  clever  to  do  this.  Whew ! 
What  did  you  hit  your  thumb  like  that  for.^" 

"Dunno."  He  looked  ruefully  at  the  crushed  member 
which  the  doctor  laved  gently  and  soothingly. 

"Why  didn't  you  come  to  me  with  it.f^" 

"Maw  'lowed  the'  wa'n't  no  use  pesterin'  you  with 
eve'ything.  She  tol'  me  eve'y  man  had  to  larn  to  hit 
a  nail  on  the  haid." 


Hoyle  visits  David  151 

David  laughed,  and  the  child  trotted  away  happy,  his 
hand  in  a  sling  made  of  one  of  the  doctor's  linen  hand- 
kerchiefs, and  his  box  of  pencils  and  his  book  hugged  to 
his  irregularly  beating  heart ;  but  it  was  with  a  grave  face 
that  Thryng  saw  him  disappear  among  the  great  masses 
of  pink  laurel  bloom. 

That  evening,  as  the  glow  in  the  west  deepened  and  died 
away  and  the  stars  came  out  one  by  one  and  sent  their 
slender  rays  down  upon  the  hills,  David  sat  on  his  rock 
with  his  flute  in  his  hand,  waiting  for  a  moment  to  arrive 
when  he  could  put  it  to  his  lips  and  send  out  the  message 
of  glad  hopes  he  had  sent  before.  She  had  asked  that  one 
little  thing,  that  his  music  might  still  be  glad,  and  so  for 
Cassandra's  sake  it  must  be. 

He  tried  once  and  again,  but  he  could  not  play.  At 
last,  putting  away  from  him  his  repentant  thoughts,  he 
gave  his  heart  full  sway,  saying  to  himself  :  "For  this  mo- 
ment I  vnll  imagine  harmlessly  that  my  vision  is  all  mine 
and  my  dream  come  true.  It  is  the  only  way."  Then  he 
played  as  if  it  were  he  whom  she  had  kissed  so  passionately, 
instead  of  his  flute ;  and  thus  it  w^as  the  glad  notes  were 
falling  on  her  spirit  when  Frale  found  her. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

IN   WHICH    FRALE   RETURNS   AND    LISTENS   TO    THE    COM- 
PLAINTS  OF   DECATUR   IRWIN's   WIFE 

All  was  quiet  and  lonely  around  Carew's  Crossing 
when  Frale  dropped  from  the  train  and  struck  off  over  the 
mountain.  Soon  there  would  be  bustle  and  stir  and  life 
About  the  place,  for  the  hotel  would'  be  open  and  people 
would  be  crowding  in,  some  to  escape  the  heat  of  the  far 
South  and  the  low  countries,  some  from  the  cities  either 
North  or  South  to  whom  the  bracing  air  of  the  mountains 
would  bring  renewed  vitality  —  business  men  with  shat- 
tered nerves  and  women  whose  high  play  during  the  winter 
at  the  game  of  social  life  had  left  them  nervous  wrecks. 

But  now  the  beauty  of  the  spring  and  the  sweet  silences 
were  undisturbed  by  alien  chatter.  As  yet  were  to  be 
heard  only  the  noises  of  the  forest  —  of  wind  and  stream 
—  of  bird  calls  and  the  piping  of  turtles  and  the  shrilling 
of  insects  or  vibrant  croaking  of  frogs  —  or  mayhap  the 
occasional  sound  of  a  gun,  discharged  by  some  solitary 
mountain  boy,  regardless  of  game  laws,  to  provide  a  supper 
at  home,  —  only  these,  as  Frale  climbed  rapidly  away 
from  the  station  toward  the  Fall  Place,  and  Cassandra. 
He  would  stop  there  first  and  then  strike  for  his  old  haunts 
and  hiding-places. 

He  felt  a  leaping  joy  in  his  veins  to  be  again  among  his 
hills.  How  lonely  he  had  been  for  them  he  had  not  known 
until  now,  when,  with  lifted  head  and  bounding  heart,  he 
trod  lightly  and  easily  the  difficult  way.  And  yet  the 
undercurrent  of  a  tragedy  lay  quiet  beneath  his  joy  and 
haunted  him,  keeping  him  to  the  trails  above,  —  the  secret 
paths  which  led  circuitously  to  his  home,  —  even  while  the 
thought  of  Cassandra^  made  his  heart  buoyant  and  eager. 

The  sight  of  Doctor  Thryng  who  during  these  months 
had  been  near  her — perhaps  seeing  her  daily  —  aroused  all 
the  primitive  jealousy  of  his  nature.  He  would  go  now 
and  persuade  her  to  marry  him  and  stand  by  him  until  he 

152 


Frale  Returns  158 

could  fight  his  way  through  to  the  unquestioned  right  to 
live  there  as  his  father  had  done,  defying  any  who  would 
interfere  with  his  course.  Had  he  not  a  silver  bullet  for 
the  heart  of  the  man  who  would  dare  contest  his  rights  ? 
It  only  remained  for  him  to  meet  Giles  Teasley  face  to  face 
to  settle  the  matter  forever. 

Since  it  was  purely  a  mountain  affair,  and  the  officers 
of  the  law  had  already  searched  to  their  satisfaction, 
there  was  little  chance  that  the  pursuit  would  be  renewed 
by  the  State.  It  would,  however,  be  impossible  for  him 
to  go  back  to  the  Fall  Place  and  live  there  openly  until 
the  last  member  of  the  Teasley  family  capable  of  wreaking 
vengeance  on  his  head  had  been  settled  with;  but  as  the 
father  was  crippled  with  rheumatism  and  could  do  no  more 
than  totter  about  his  mill  and  talk,  only  this  one  brother 
was  left  with  whom  to  deal.  Now  that  Frale  was  back 
in  his  own  hills  again,  all  terror  slipped  from  him,  and  the 
old  excitement  in  the  presence  of  danger  to  be  met,  or 
avoided,  stimulated  him  to  a  feeling  of  exuberance  and 
triumph.  With  childlike  facility  he  tossed  aside  the 
thought  of  his  promise  to  Cassandra.  It  all  seemed  to 
him  as  a  dream  —  all  the  horror  and  the  remorse.  Time 
had  quickly  dulled  this  last. 

"Ef  I  hadn't  'a*  killed  Ferd,  he  would  'a'  shot  me.  Any- 
how, he  hadn't  ought  to  'a'  riled  me  that-a-way." 

He  thought  with  shame  of  how  he  had  sat  cowering  at 
the  head  of  the  fall,  and  had  hurled  his  own  dog  to 
destruction,  in  his  fear.  "  I  war  jes'  plumb  crazy,"  he 
soliloquized. 

As  to  how  he  could  deal  with  Cassandra,  he  did  not  as 
yet  know,  but  he  would  find  a  way.  In  his  heart,  he 
reached  out  to  her  and  already  possessed  her.  His 
blood  leaped  madly  through  his  veins  that  he  was  so  soon 
to  see  her  and  touch  her.  Have  her  he  would,  if  he 
must  continue  to  kill  his  way  to  her  through  an  army  of 
opponents. 

The  evening  was  falling,  and,  imagining  they  would  all 
be  sleeping,  he  meant  to  creep  quietly  up  and  spend  the 
night  in  the  loom  shed.  There  was  no  dog  there  now  to 
disturb  them  with  joyful  bark  of  recognition.  At  last  he 
found  himself  above  the  home,  where,  by  striking  through 
the  undergrowth  a  short  distance,  he  would  come  out  by 


154  The  Mountain  Girl 

the  great  holly  tree  near  the  head  of  the  fall.  Already  he 
could  hear  the  welcome  sound  of  rushing  water. 

He  drew  nearer  through  the  thick  laurel  and  azalea 
shrubs  now  in  full  bloom  ;  their  pollen  clung  to  his  clothing 
as  he  brushed  among  them.  Cautiously  he  approached 
the  spot  which  recalled  to  him  the  emotions  he  had  ex- 
perienced there — now  throbbing  through  him  anew.  He 
peered  into  the  gathering  dusk  with  eager  eyes  as  if  he 
thought  to  find  her  still  there.  Ah,  he  could  crush  her  in 
his  mad  joy  ! 

Suddenly  he  paused  and  listened.  Other  sounds  than 
those  of  the  night  and  the  running  water  fell  on  his  ear  — 
sounds  deliciously  sweet  and  thrilling,  filling  all  the  air, 
mingling  with  the  rushing  of  the  fall  and  accenting  its  flow. 
From  whence  did  they  come  —  those  new  sounds  ?  He 
had  never  heard  them  before.  Did  they  drop  from  the 
sky  —  from  the  stars  twinkling  brightly  down  on  him  — 
now  faint  and  far  as  if  born  in  heaven  —  now  near  and 
clear  —  silvery  clear  and  strong  and  sweet  —  penetrating 
his  very  soul  and  making  every  nerve  quiver  to  their 
pulsating  rhythm  ?  He  felt  a  certain  fear  of  a  new  kind 
creep  tinglingly  through  him,  holding  him  cold  and  still  — 
for  the  moment  breathless.  Was  she  there  ?  Had  she 
died,  and  was  this  her  spirit  trying  to  speak  ? 

Very  quietly  he  drew  nearer  to  the  great  rock.  Yes, 
she  was  there,  standing  with  her  back  to  the  silvery  gray 
bole  of  the  holly  tree,  her  face  lifted  toward  the  mountain 
top  and  her  expression  rapt  and  listening  —  holy  and 
pure  —  far  removed  from  him  as  was  the  star  above  the 
peak  toward  which  her  gaze  was  turned.  He  could  not 
touch  her,  nor  crush  her  to  him  as  a  moment  before  he  had 
felt  he  must,  but  he  slowly  approached. 

She  heard  his  step  and  then  saw  him  waiting  there  in 
the  dim  light  of  the  starry  dusk.  For  an  instant  she  re- 
garded him  in  silence,  then  she  essayed  to  speak,  but  her 
lips  only  trembled  over  the  words  voicelessly.  He  could 
not  see  her  emotion,  but  he  felt  it,  although  her  stillness 
made  her  seem  calm.  Hungrily  he  stood  and  watched 
her.     At  last  she  spoke  :  — 

"Why,  Frale,  Frale!" 

"Hit's  me,  Cass." 

"Have  —  have  you  been  down  to  the  house,  Frale  ?" 


Frale  Returns  155 

"Naw,  I  jes'  come  this-a-way  from  the  station." 

*'Is  it  —  is  it  safe  for  you  to  come  here,  Frale  ?" 

She  stood  a  short  distance  from  him,  speaking  so  softly, 
and  yet  he  could  not  touch  her ;  his  hands  seemed  numb, 
and  his  breath  came  pantinglJ^ 

"I  reckon  hit's  safe  here  as  thar,"  he  said  huskily. 
"An'  I'm  come  to  stav,  too." 

"Then  let's  go  down  to  mother.  Likely  she's  a-bed  by 
now,  but  she'll  be  right  glad  to  see  you.  She  can  walk  a 
little  now."  She  hastened  to  fill  the  moments  with  words, 
anything  to  divert  that  fixed  gaze  and  take  his  thoughts 
from  her.  Instinctively  she  groped  thus  for  tinie,  she 
who  like  a  deer  would  flee  if  flight  were  possible,  even  while 
her  heart  welled  with  pity  for  him.  "Come.  You  can 
talk  w^ith  her  whilst  I  get  you  some  supper."  She  felt  his 
pent-up  emotion  and  secretly  feared  it,  but  held  herself 
bravely.  "Hoyle  will  nigh  jump  out  of  his  skin,  he'll  be 
that  glad  you  come  back." 

He  stood  stubbornly  where  he  was,  and  lifted  his  hand  to 
grasp  her  arm,  but  she  glided  on  just  beyond  his  reach, 
either  not  seeing  it,  or  avoiding  it,  he  could  not  decide 
which,  and  still  she  said,  "Come,  Frale."  He  followed 
stumblingly  in  her  wake,  as  a  man  follows  an  ignis  fatuus, 
unconscious  of  the  roughness  of  the  way  or  of  the  steps  he 
was  taking — and  the  flute  notes  followed  them  from  above 
—  sweetly — mockingly,  as  it  seemed  to  him.  What  were 
they  ?  Why  were  they  .^  How  came  Cassandra  there 
listening  .^  He  could  stand  this  mystery  no  longer  —  and 
he  cried  out  to  her. 

"Cass,  hear.     Listen  to  that." 

"Yes,  Frale."     She  spoke  wearily,  but  did  not  pause. 

"Wait,  Cass.  What  be  hit,  ye  reckon.^  Hit  sure 
hain't  no  fiddle.    Thar!    Heark  to  hit.    Whar  be  hit  at  .'^ " 

"I  reckon  it's  up  yonder  at  Doctor  Thryng's  cabin.  He 
has  a  little  pipe  like,  that  he  blows  on  and  it  makes  music 
like  that." 

"An'  you  clum'  up  thar  to  heark  to  him  ?  "  He  bounded 
forward  in  the  darkness  and  walked  close  to  her.  She 
quivered  like  a  leaf,  but  held  her  voice  low  and  steady  as 
she  replied. 

"No,  Frale.  I  go  there  evenings  when  I'm  not  too  tired. 
I've  been  going  there  ever  since  you  left  to — " 


156  The  Mountain  Girl 

"  That  doctali,  he's  be'n  castin'  a  spell  on  you,  Cass.  I 
kin  see  hit  —  how  you  walkin'  off  an'  nevah  'low  me  to 
touch  you.  Ye  hain't  said  howd'y  to  me  nor  how  you 
glad  I  come.  You  like  a  col'  white  drift  o'  snow  blowin' 
on  ahead  o'  me.  You  hain't  no  human  girl  like  you  used 
to  be.  I  got  somethin'  to  put  a  spell  on  him,  too,  ef  he 
don't  watch  out."  ? 

He  spoke  in  his  mild,  low-voiced  drawl,  but  he  kept 
close  to  her  side,  and  she  could  hear  his  breathing,  quick 
and  panting.  She  felt  as  if  a  tiger  were  keeping  pace  with 
her,  and  she  knew  the  sinister  meaning  beneath  his  words. 
She  knew  that  all  she  could  do  now  was  to  take  him  back  to 
his  promise  and  hold  him  to  it. 

"There's  no  such  thing  as  spell  casting,  Frale.  You 
know  that,  and  you  have  my  promise  and  I  have  yours. 
Have  you  forgot  ^  Talking  that  way  seems  like  you  have 
forgot."  She  walked  on  rapidly,  taking  him  nearer  and 
nearer  their  home,  and  in  her  haste  she  stumbled.  In  an 
instant  his  arm  was  thrown  around  her,  holding  her  on 
her  feet. 

"Look  at  you  now,  like  to  fall  cl'ar  headlong,  runnin' 
that-a-way  to  get  shet  o'  me.  'Pears  like  you  mad  that 
I  come." 

He  held  her  back,  and  they  went  slowly,  but  he  did  not 
release  her,  nor  did  she  struggle  futilely  against  his  strength, 
knowing  it  wiser  to  continue  calmly  leading  him  on ;  but 
she  could  not  reply.  The  start  of  her  fall  and  her  wildly 
beating  heart  rendered  her  breathless  and  weak. 

"I  tell  you  that  thar  doctah  man,  he  have  put  a  spell 
on  you.  He  done  drawed  you  up  thar  to  hear  to  him. 
I  seed  you  lookin'  like  he'd  done  drawed  yuer  soul  outen 
yuer  body.  I  have  heard  o'  sech.  He's  be'n  down  to 
Bishop  Towahs',  too,  whar  I  be'n  workin'  at.  I  seed  him 
watchin'  me  like  he  come  to  spy  on  me,  an'  he  no  sooner 
gone  than  I  seed  that  thar  Giles  Teasley  sneakin'  'long  the 
fence  lookin'  over  an'  searchin'  eve'y  place  like  he  war 
a-hungerin'  fer  a  sight  o'  me."  He  stopped  and  swallowed 
angrily.  They  had  arrived  at  the  trough  of  running  water, 
and  she  breathed  easier  to  find  herself  so  near  her  haven. 

"What  have  you  done  with  your  dog,  Frale?  You 
reckon  he  followed  you  off  .^  I  haven't  seen  him  since 
you  left.'' . 


Frale  Returns  "  157 

He  released  her  then  and,  stooping  to  the  water-pipe, 
drank  a  long  draft,  and  thrust  his  head  beneath  it,  allowing 
the  water  to  drench  his  thick  hair.  Then  he  stood  a 
moment,  shaking  his  curling  locks  like  a  spaniel. 

"Wait  here.  I'll  fetch  a  towel."  She  hastened  within. 
"Mother,  Frale's  come  back,"  she  said  quietly,  not  to 
awaken  Hoyle ;  then  returned  and  tossed  him  the  towel 
which  he  caught  and  rubbed  vigorously  over  his  head  and 
face. 

"Now  you  are  like  yourself  again,  Frale." 

"Yas,  I'm  here  an'  I'm  myself,  I  reckon.  Who'd  ye 
think  I  be  ?  "  He  caught  her  and  kissed  her,  and,  with  his 
arm  about  her,  entered  the  cabin. 

His  mood  changed  with  childish  ease  according  to  what- 
ever the  moments  brought  him.  Cassandra  lighted  a 
candle,  for  now  that  the  days  had  grown  warm,  the  fire  was 
allowed  to  go  out  unless  needed  for  cooking.  His  step- 
mother had  roused  herself  and  peered  at  him  from  out 
her  dark  corner,  where  little  Hoyle  lay  sleeping  soundly  in 
the  farther  side  of  her  bed.  Frale  strode  across  the  uneven 
floor  and  kissed  her  also,  resoundingly.  Astounded,  she 
dropped  back  on  her  pillow. 

"What  ails  ye,  Frale  !"  The  mountain  people  are  for 
the  most  part  too  reserved  to  be  lavish  with  their  kisses. 

"Nothin'  ails  me.  I'm  kissin'  you  fer  Cass's  sake.  Me 
an'  her's  goin'  to  get  jined  an'  set  up  togethah.  I'm  come 
back  fer  to  marry  with  her,  and  we're  goin'  ovah  t'othah 
side  Lone  Pine,  an'  I'm  goin'  to  build  a  cabin  thar.  That's 
how  I'm  kissin'  you.  Will  you  have  anothah,  or  shall  I 
give  hit  to  Cass  ?  " 

"You  hush  an*  go  'long,"  said  the  mother,  half  con- 
temptuously. 

"Frale's  making  fool  talk,  mothah.  Don't  give  heed  to 
him.  He's  light-headed,  I  reckon,  and  I'm  going  to  get 
him  something  to  eat  right  quick." 

"I  'low  he  be  light-headed.  Nobody's  goin'  to  git 
Cass  whilst  I'm  livin',  'thout  he's  got.more'n  a  cabin  ovah 
t'othah  side  Lone  Pine.  She's  right  well  off  here,  an'  here 
she'll  'bide." 

Frale  turned  darkly  on  the  mother.  "I  reckon  you'd 
bettah  give  heed  to  me  mor'n  to  her,"  he  said,  in  the  low 
drawl  which  boded  much  with  him, 


158  The  Mountain  Girl 

Cassandra,  on  her  knees  at  the  hearth,  was  arranging 
sticks  of  fat  pine  to  Hght  the  fire.  Her  hands  shook  as  she 
held  them.  This  Frale  saw,  and  his  eyes  gleamed.  He  came 
to  her  side  and,  kneeling  also,  took  them  from  her. 

"Hit's  my  place  to  do  this  fer  you  now,  Cass.  F'om 
now  on  —  I  reckon.  I'll  hang  the  kittle  fer  ye,  too,  an' 
fetch  the  water." 

The  mother  stared  at  them  in  silence,  and  Cassandra, 
taking  up  the  coffee-pot,  rose  and  went  out.  When  she 
returned,  the  fire  was  crackling  merrily,  and  the  great 
kettle  swung  over  it.  Hoyle  was  up  and  seated  on  his 
half-brother's  knee.  Cassandra's  eyes  looked  heavy  and 
showed  traces  of  tears. 

Frale  saw  it  all,  with  eyes  gleaming  blue  through  nar- 
rowly drawn  lids.  His  lips  quivered  a  little  as  he  talked 
with  Hoyle.  He  drew  out  his  money  for  the  child  to  count 
over  gleefully,  thus  diverting  himself  with  the  boy,  while 
he  watched  Cassandra  furtively.  He  decided  to  say  no 
more  at  present  until  she  should  have  had  time  to  adjust 
her  mind  to  the  thought  he  had  so  daringly  announced  to 
her  mother.  The  two  cakes  little  Dorothy  had  given  him 
he  took  from  his  bundle  and  gave  to  Hoyle,  then  carried 
him  back  and  put  him  to  bed  and  told  him  to  sleep  again. 

For  all  of  her  promise,  Cassandra  had  not  expected  this 
to  come  upon  her  so  suddenly,  like  lightning  out  of  a  clear 
sky,  startling  her  very  soul  with  fear.  As  Frale  ate 
what  she  set  before  him,  she  went  over  to  the  bedside,  and 
sat  there  holding  her  mother's  hand  and  talking  in  low 
tones,  while  Hoyle,  with  wide  eyes,  strove  to  hear. 

"Be  hit  true,  what  he  says,  Cass.^" 

"Not  all,  mother.  I  never  told  him  I  would  go  and 
live  over  beyond  Lone  Pine.  I  meant  always  to  live  right 
here  with  you,  but  I  am  promised  to  him.  I  gave  him  my 
word  that  night  he  left,  to  get  him  to  go  and  save  him. 
Oh,  God  !  Mother,  I  didn't  guess  it  would  come  so  soon. 
He  promised  me  he  would  repent  his  deed  and  live  right." 

The  mother  brightened  and  drew  her  daughter  down 
and  spoke  low  in  her  ear.  "Make  him  keep  to  his  promise 
first,  child.  Yuer  safe  thar.  I  reckon  he's  doin'  a  heap  o' 
repentin'  this-a-way.  I  ain'  goin'  'low  you  throw  you'se'f 
away  on  no  Farwell,  ef  he  be  good-lookin',  'thout  he  holds 
to  his  word  good  fer  a  year.     Hit's  jes'  the  way  his  paw 


Frale  Returns  159 

done  me.  He  gin  me  his  word  'at  he'd  stop  'stillin'  an' 
drinkin',  an'  he  helt  to  hit  fer  three  months,  an'  then  he 
come  on  me  this-a-way  an'  I  married  him,  an'  he  opened 
up  his  still  again  in  three  weeks,  an'  thar  he  went  his  own 
way  f'om  that  day." 

Cassandra  rose  and  went  to  the  door.  "I'm  going  to 
make  you  a  bed  in  the  loom  shed  like  I  made  it  for  the  doc- 
tor. There  is  no  bed  up  garret  now.  I  emptied  out  all 
the  ticks  and  thought  I'd  have  them  fresh  filled  against 
you  come  back  —  but  I've  been  that  busy." 

Soon  he  followed  her  out.  "I  reckon  I  won't  sleep 
thar  whar  that  doctah  have  slep'.  He  might  put  a  spell 
on  me,  too,"  he  said,  standing  in  the  door  of  the  shed  and 
looking  in  on  her.  The  night  was  lighter  now,  for  the 
full  moon  had  glided  up  over  the  hills,  and  she  worked 
by  its  light  streaming  though  the  open  door. 

"I  can't  see  with  you  standing  there,  Frale.  I  reckon 
you'll  have  to  sleep  here,  because  it's  too  late  to  fill  your 
bed  to-night." 

"Oh,  leave  that  be  and  come  and  sit  here  with  me," 
he  said,  dropping  on  the  step  where  the  doctor  had  sat 
when  she  opened  her  heart  to  him  and  told  him  about 
her  father.  It  all  surged  back  upon  her  now.  She 
could  not  sit  there  with  Frale.  "I'll  make  my  bed  my- 
self, an'  I'll  —  I'll  sleep  wharevah  you  want  me  to,  ef  hit's 
up  on  the  roof  or  out  yandah  in  the  water  trough.  Come, 
sit." 

"We'll  go  back  on  the  porch,  and  I'll  take  mother's 
chair.     I'm  right  tired." 

"When  we  git  in  our  own  cabin  ovah  t'othah  side 
Lone  Pine,  you  won't  have  nothin'  to  do  only  tend 
on  me,"  he  said,  drawing  her  to  him.  He  led  her 
across  the  open  space  and  placed  her  gently  in  her 
mother's  chair  on  the  little  porch. 

"Now,  Frale,  sit  down  there  and  listen,"  she  said, 
pointing  to  the  step  at  her  feet  where  Thryng  had  sat  only 
a  few  days  before  to  make  out  the  lease  of  their  land. 
Everything  seemed  to  cry  out  to  her  of  him  to-night,  but 
she  must  steel  her  heart  against  the  thought. 

"I'm  going  to  talk  to  you  straight,  just  what  I  mean, 
Frale.  You've  been  talking  as  you  pleased  in  there,  and  I 
'lowed  you  to,  I  was  that  set  back.     Anyway,  I'd  rather 


160  The  Mountain  Girl 

talk  to  you  alone.  Frale,  our  promise  was  made  before 
God,  and  you  know  I  will  keep  to  mine.  But  you 
must  keep  to  yours,  too.  Listen  at  me.  Mrs.  Towers 
wrote  me  you  had  been  drunk  twice.  Is  that  keeping 
your  promise  to  leave  whiskey  alone  ?     Is  it,  Frale  ?  " 

"You  have  somebody  down  thar  watchin'  me,  an'  I 
hain't  nobody  a-watchin'  you,"  he  said  sullenly.  She 
felt  degraded  by  his  words. 

"Frale,  do  you  know  me  all  these  years  to  think  such   , 
as  that  of  me  now  ?  " 

"I  tell  you  he  have  put  a  spell  on  you.  I  kin  feel  hit 
an'  see  hit.  Hit  ain't  your  fault,  Cass.  I'd  put  one  on 
you  myself,  ef  I  could.  Anyhow,  I'll  take  you  out  of  this 
fer  he  have  done  hit." 

"Do  you  never  say  that  word  to  me  again  as  long  as  you 
live,  Frale,"  she  said  sternly.  "  Listen  at  me,  I  say. 
You  go  back  there  and  work  like  you  said  you  would  —  " 

"Didn't  I  tell  you  that  thar  houn'  dog  Giles  Teasley 
war  on  my  scent  ?  I  seen  him.  I  got  to  come  back 
ontwell  I  c'n  git  shet  o'  him." 

"And  that  means  another  murder  !  Oh,  Frale,  Frale  !" 
She  covered  her  face  with  her  hands  and  moaned.  Then 
they  sat  silent  awhile. 

After  a  little  she  lifted  her  head.  "Frale,  I'll  go  over 
to  Teasleys'  and  beg  for  them  to  leave  you  be.  I'll 
beg  Giles  Teasley  on  my  knees,  I  will.  Then  when  you 
have  bided  your  year  and  kept  your  promise  like  you  swore 
before  God,  I'll  marry  you  like  I  promised,  and  we'll 
live  here  and  keep  the  old  place  like  it  ought  to  be  kept. 
You  hear,  Frale  ?  Good  night,  now.  It's  only  fair  you 
should  give  heed  to  me,  Frale,  if  I  do  that  for  you. 
Good  night." 

She  glided  past  him  into  the  house  like  a  wraith,  and 
he  rose  without  a  word  of  reply  and  stretched  himself 
on  the  half-made  bed  in  the  loom  shed,  as  he  was.  Sullen 
and  angry,  he  lay  far  into  the  night  with  the  moonlight 
streaming  over  him,  but  he  did  not  sleep,  and  his  mood 
only  grew  more  bitter  and  dangerous. 

When  the  first  streak  of  dawn  was  drawn  across  the 
eastern  sky,  he  rose  unrefreshed,  and  began  a  search,  feel- 
ing along  the  rafters  high  above  the  bags  of  cotton.  Pres- 
ently he  drew  forth  an  ancient,  long-barrelled  rifle,  and, 


Frale  Returns  161 

taking  it  out  into  the  light,  examined  it  carefully.  He 
rubbed  and  cleaned  the  barrel  and  polished  the  stock 
and  oiled  the  hammer  and  trigger.  Then  he  brought 
from  the  same  hiding-place  a  horn  of  powder  and  gun 
wadding,  and  at  last  took  from  his  pocket  the  silver  bullet, 
with  which  he  loaded  his  old  weapon  even  as  he  had  seen 
it  charged  in  past  days  by  his  father's  hand. 

Below  the  house,  built  over  a  clear  v*^elling  spring  which 
ran  in  a  bright  little  rivulet  to  the  larger  stream,  was  the 
spring-house.  Here,  after  the  warm  days  came,  the 
milk  and  butter  were  kept,  and  here  Frale  sauntered 
down  —  his  gun  slung  across  his  arm,  his  powder-horn  at 
his  belt,  in  his  old  clothes  —  with  his  trousers  thrust  in 
his  boot-tops  —  to  search  for  pro\'isions  for  the  day  and  his 
breakfast  as  well.  He  had  no  mind  to  allow  the  family 
to  oppose  his  action  or  reason  him  out  of  his  course. 

He  found  a  jug  of  buttermilk  placed  there  the  evening 
before  for  Hoyle  to  carry  to  the  doctor  in  the  morning,  and 
slung  it  by  a  strap  over  his  shoulder.  In  one  of  the  sheds 
lay  two  chickens,  ready  dressed  to  be  cut  up  for  the  frying- 
pan,  and  one  of  these,  with  a  generous  strip  of  salt 
pork  from  the  keg  of  dry  salt  where  it  was  kept,  he 
dropped  in  a  sack.  He  would  not  enter  the  house 
for  corn-bread,  even  though  he  knew  he  was  welcome  to 
all  the  home  afforded,  but  planned  to  arrive  at  some 
mountain  cabin  where  friends  would  give  him  what  he 
required  to  complete  his  stock  of  food.  His  gun  would 
provide  him.  with  an  occasional  meal  of  game,  and  he  thus 
felt  himself  prepared  for  as  long  a  period  of  ambush  as 
might  be  necessary. 

Before  sunrise  he  was  well  on  his  way  over  the  mountain. 
He  did  not  attempt  to  go  directly  to  his  old  haunt,  but 
turned  aside  and  took  the  trail  leading  along  the  ridge  —  the 
same  Thryng  and  Cassandra  had  taken  to  go  to  the  cabin  of 
Decatur  Irwin.  Frale  had  no  definite  idea  of  going  there, 
but  took  the  high  ridge  instinctively.  So  long  had  he  been 
in  the  low  country  that  he  craved  now  to  reach  the  heights 
where  he  might  see  the  far  blue  distances  and  feel  the 
strong  sweet  air  blowing  past  him.  It  was  much  the 
same  feeling  that  had  caused  him  to  thrust  his  head  under 
the  trough  of  running  water  the  evening  before. 

As  a  wild  creature  loves  the  freedom  of  the  plains,  or 


162  The  Mountain  Girl 

an  eagle  rises  and  circles  about  in  the  blue  ether  aimless 
and  untrammelled,  so  this  man  of  the  hills  moved  now  in 
his  natural  environment,  living  in  the  present  moment, 
glad  to  be  above  the  low  levels  and  out  from  under  all 
restraint,  seeing  but  a  little  way  into  his  future,  content 
to  satisfy  present  needs  and  the  cravings  of  his  strong, 
virile  body. 

Moments  of  exaltation  and  aspiration  came  to  him, 
as  they  must  come  to  every  one,  but  they  were  moments 
only,  and  were  quickly  swept  aside  and  but  vaguely  com- 
prehended by  him.  As  a  child  will  weep  one  minute 
over  some  creature  his  heedlessness  has  hurt  and  the 
next  forget  it  al^  in  the  pursuit  of  some  new  delight,  so 
this  child  of  nature  took  his  way,  swayed  by  his  moods 
and  desires  —  an  elemental  force,  like  a  swollen  torrent 
taking  its  vengeful  way  —  forgetful  of  promises  —  glad 
of  freedom  —  angry  at  being  held  in  restraint,  and  will- 
ing to  crush  or  tear  away  any  opposing  force. 

At  last,  breakfastless  and  weary  after  his  long  climb, 
his  sleepless  night,  and  the  depression  following  his  talk 
with  Cassandra  the  evening  before,  he  paused  at  the  edge 
of  the  descent,  loath  to  leave  the  open  height  behind  him, 
and  stretched  himself  under  a  great  black  cedar  to  rest. 
As  he  lay  there  dreaming  and  scheming,  with  half-shut 
eyes,  he  spied  below  him  the  bare  red  patch  of  soil  around 
the  cabin  of  Decatur  Irwin.  Instantly  he  rose  and  be- 
gan rapidly  to  descend. 

Decatur  was  away.  He  had  got  a  "job  of  hauling,'* 
his  wife  said,  and  had  to  be  away  all  day,  but  she  willingly 
set  herself  to  bake  a  fresh  corn-cake  and  make  him  coffee. 
He  had  already  taken  a  little  of  his  buttermilk,  but  he 
did  not  care  for  raw  salt  pork  alone.  He  wanted  his 
corn-bread  and  coffee, — the  staple  of  the  mountaineer. 

She  talked  much,  in  a  languid  way,  as  she  worked,  and 
he  sat  in  the  doorway.  Now  and  then  she  asked  questions 
about  his  home  and  *'Cassandry,"  which  he  answered 
evasively.  She  gossiped  much  about  all  the  happenings 
and  sayings  of  her  neighbors  far  and  near,  and  com- 
plained much,  when  she  came  to  take  pay  from  him  for 
what  she  provided,  of  the  times  which  had  come  upon 
them  since  *'Cate  had  hurt  his  foot."  She  told  how 
that  fool   doctor  had   come   there  and  taken   "hit  off. 


Frale  Returns  163 

makin'  out  like  Cate'd  die  of  hit  ef  he  didn't,"  and  how 
"Cassandry  Merlin  had  done  cheated  her  into  goin'  off 
so  't  she  could  bide  thar  at  the  cabin  alone  with  that 
doctah   man  herself  an'  he'p  him  do  hit." 

With  her  snuff  stick  between  her  yellow  teeth  and  her 
numerous  progeny  squatting  in  the  dirt  all  about  the  door- 
way, idly  gazing  at  Frale,  she  retailed  her  grievances  with- 
out reserve.  How  the  wife  of  Hoke  Belew  had  been 
"ailin',"  and  Cassandra  had  *' be'n  thar  ev'y  day 
keerin'  fer  her.  I  'low  she  jes'  goes  'cause  she  'lows 
she'll  see  that  doctah  man  thar  an'  ride  back  with  him 
like  she  done  when  she  brung  him  here,"  said  the  pallid, 
spiteful  creature,  and  spat  as  she  talked.  "She  nevah 
done  that  fer  me.  I  be'n  sick  a  heap  o'  times,  an'  she 
hain't  nevah  come  nigh  me  to  do  a  lick." 

Frale  was  annoyed  to  hear  Cassandra  thus  spoken 
against,  for  was  she  not  his  own  ?  He  chose  to  defend 
her,  while  purposely  concealing  his  bitter  anger  against  the 
doctor.  "  The'  hain't  nothin'  agin  Cassandry.  She's 
sorter  kin  to  me,  an'  I  'low  the'  hain't." 

"Naw,"  said  the  woman,  changing  instantly  at  the 
threatening  tone,  "  the'  hain't  nothin'  agin  her.  I 
reckon  he  tells  her  whar  to  go,  an'  she  jes'  goes  like  he 
tells  her." 

Frale  threw  his  sack  over  his  shoulder  and  started  on 
in  silence,  and  the  woman  smiled  evilly  after  him  as  she 
sat  there  and  licked  her  lips,  and  chewed  on  her  snuff 
stick  and  spat. 


CHAPTER  XVII  r 

IN   WHICH   DAVID   THRYNG   MEETS   AN   ENEMY 

The  next  day  David  gave  his  attention  to  the  letters 
which  he  found  awaiting  him.  One  was  from  Doctor 
Hoyle  in  Canada.  He  had  but  just  returned  from  a  visit 
to  England,  and  it  was  full  of  news  of  David's  family 
there. 

"Your  two  cousins  and  your  brother  are  gone  with 
their  regiments  to  South  Africa,"  he  wrote.  "They  are 
jubilant  to  be  called  to  active  service,  as  they  ought  to 
be,  but  your  mother  is  heartbroken  over  their  departure. 
You  stay  where  you  are,  my  boy.  She  is  glad  enough 
to  have  you  out  of  England  now,  and  far  from  the 
temptation  which  besets  youth  in  times  of  war.  It 
has  already  caused  a  serious  blood-letting  for  Old  Eng- 
land. I  have  grave  doubts  about  this  contention.  In 
these  days  there  ought  to  be  a  way  of  preventing  such 
disaster.  Write  to  your  mother  and  comfort  her  heart, 
—  she  needs  it.  I  was  careful  not  to  betray  to  her  what 
your  condition  has  been,  as  I  discovered  you  had  not 
done  so.  Hold  fast  and  fight  for  health,  and  be  content. 
Your  recuperative  power  is  good.'* 

David  was  filled  with  contrition  as  he  opened  his 
mother's  letter,  which  was  several  weeks  old  and  had 
come  by  way  of  Canada,  since  she  did  not  know  he  had 
gone  South.  For  some  time  he  had  sent  home  only 
casual  notes,  partly  to  save  her  anxiety,  and  partly  be- 
cause writing  was  irksome  to  him  unless  he  had  some- 
thing particularly  pleasant  to  tell  her.  His  plans  and 
actions  had  been  so  much  discussed  at  home  and  he  had 
been  considered  so  censurably  odd  —  so  different  from 
his  relatives  and  friends  in  his  opinions,  and  so  impossible 
of  comprehension  (which  branded  him  in  his  own  circle 
as  being  quite  at  fault)  —  that  he  had  long  ago  abandoned 

164 


David  meets  an  Enemy  165 

all  effort  to  make  himself  understood  by  them,  and  had 
retired  behind  his  mask  of  reserve  and  silence  to  pursue 
his  own  course  undisturbed.  Thus,  at  best,  an  occasional 
perfunctory  letter  that  all  was  well  with  him  was  the  sum 
total  of  news  they  received.  Thryng  had  no  money 
anxieties  for  his  family.  The  needs  of  his  mother  and  his 
sister  —  not  yet  of  age  —  were  amply  provided  for  by  a 
moderate  annuity,  while  his  brother  had  his  position  in 
the  army,  and  help  from  his  uncle  besides.  For  himself, 
he  had  saved  enough,  with  his  simple  tastes  and  much 
hard  work,  to  tide  him  over  this  period  of  rest. 

David  sat  now  and  turned  his  mother's  letter  over  and 
over.  He  read  and  reread  it.  It  was  verv  sad.  Her 
splendid  boys  both  gone  from  her,  one  possibly  never  to 
return  —  neither  of  them  married  and  with  no  hope  of 
grandchildren  to  solace  her  declining  years.  "Stay 
where  you  are,  David,"  she  wrote;  "Doctor  Hoyle  tells 
us  you  are  doing  well.  Don't,  oh,  don't  enter  the  army  ! 
One  son  I  have  surrendered  to  my  country's  service; 
let  me  feel  that  I  still  have  one  on  whom  I  may  depend 
to  care  for  Laura  and  me  in  the  years  to  come.  We  do 
not  need  you  now,  but  some  day  we  may." 

David's  quandary  was  how  to  give  her  as  much  of  his 
confidence  as  filial  duty  required  without  betrajdng  him- 
self so  far  as  to  arouse  the  antagonistic  comment  of  her 
immediate  circle  upon  his  course. 

At  last  he  found  a  way.  Telling  her  he  did  not  know 
how  soon  he  might  return  to  Canada,  he  requested  her 
to  continue  to  address  him  there.  He  then  filled  his 
letter  with  loving  thoughts  for  her  and  Laura,  and  a  humor- 
ous description  of  what  he  had  seen  and  experienced  in 
the  "States"  and  the  country  about  him,  all  so  foreign 
and  utterly  strange  to  her  as  to  be  equal  to  a  small  manu- 
script romance.  It  was  a  cleverly  written  letter,  so  hiding 
the  vital  matters  of  his  soul,  which  he  could  not  reveal 
even  to  the  most  loving  scrutiny,  that  all  her  motherly 
intuition  failed  to  read  between  the  lines.  The  humorous 
portions  she  gave  to  the  rector's  wife,  —  her  most  intimate 
friend,  —  and  the  dear  son's  love  expressed  therein  she 
treasured  in  her  heart  and  was  comforted. 

Then  David  rode  away  up  the  mountain  without 
descending  to  his  little  farm.     He  craved  to  get  far  into 


166  The  Mountain  Girl 

the  very  heart  of  the  wildest  parts,  for  with  the  letters 
the  old  conventional  and  stereotyped  ideals  seemed  to 
have  intruded  into  his  cabin. 

He  passed  the  home  of  Hoke  Belew  and  stopped  there 
to  see  that  all  was  well  with  them.  The  rose  vine  covering 
the  porch  roof  was  filled  with  pink  blossoms,  hundreds 
of  them  swinging  out  over  his  head.  The  air  was  sweet 
with  the  odor  of  honeysuckle.  The  old  locust  tree  would 
soon  be  alive  with  bees,  for  it  was  already  budded.  He 
took  the  baby  in  his  arms  and  saw  that  its  cheeks  were 
growing  round  and  plump,  and  that  the  young  mother 
looked  well  and  happy,  and  he  was  glad. 

"Take  good  care  of  them,  Hoke;  they  are  worth  it," 
he  said  to  the  young  father,  as  he  passed  him  coming  in 
from  the  field. 

"I  will  that,"  said  the  man. 

"Can  you  tell  me  how  to  reach  a  place  called  *Wild 
Cat  Hole'  '^     I  have  a  fancy  to  do  a  little  exploring." 

"Waal,  hit's  sorter  round  about.  I  don't  guess  ye  c'n 
find  hit  easy."  The  man  spat  as  if  reluctant  to  give  the 
information  asked,  which  only  stimulated  David  all  the 
more  to  find  the  spot. 

"Keep  right  on  this  way,  do  1?'^ 

"Yas,  you  keep  on  fer  a  spell,  an'  then  you  turn  to  th' 
right  an'  foller  the  stream  fer  a  spell,  an'  you  keep  on 
follerin'  hit  off  an'  on  till  you  git  thar.  Ye'll  know  hit 
when  you  do  git  thar,  but  th'  still's  all  broke  up." 

"Oh,  I  don't  care  a  rap  about  the  still." 

"Naw,  I  reckon  not.  Better  light  an'  have  dinner 
'fore  you  go  on.  Azalie,  keep  the  doc  to  dinner.  I'm 
comin'  in  a  minute,"  he  called  to  his  wife,  who  stood 
smiling  in  the  doorway. 

David  willingly  accepted  the  proffered  hospitality,  as 
he  had  often  done  before,  knowing  it  would  be  well  after 
nightfall  ere  he  could  return  to  his  cabin,  and  rode  back 
to  the  house. 

While  Azalea  prepared  dinner,  Hoke  sat  in  the  open 
door  and  held  his  baby  and  smoked.  David  took  a  splint- 
bottomed  chair  out  on  the  porch  and  smoked  with  him, 
watching  pleasantly  the  pride  of  the  young  father,  who 
allowed  the  tiny  fist  to  close  tightly  around  his  great 
work-roughened  finger. 


David  meets  an  Enemy  167 

"Look  a-tliar  now.  See  that  hand.  Hit  ain't  bigger'n 
a  bumble-bee,  an'  see  how  he  km  hang  on." 

"Yes,"  said  David,  absently  regarding  them.  "He's 
a  fine  boy." 

"He  sure  is.     The'  hain't  no  finer  on  this  mountain." 

Azalea  came  and  looked  down  over  her  husband's  shoul- 
der. "Don't  do  that-a-way,  Hoke.  You'll  wake  him  up, 
bobbin'  his  arm  up  an'  down  like  you  a-doin'.  Hoke, 
he's  that  proud,  you  can't  touch  him." 

"You  hear  that.  Doc  .'^  Azalie,  she's  that  sot  on  him 
she's  like  to  turn  me  outen  the  house  fer  jes'  lookin'  at  him. 
She  'lows  he'll  grow  up  a  preacher,  on  account  o'  the  way 
he  kin  holler  an'  thrash  with  his  fists,  but  I  tell  her  hit 
hain't  no  thin'  but  madness  an'  devilment  'at  gits  in  him." 

With  a  mother's  superior  smile  playing  about  her  lips, 
she  glanced  understandingly  at  David,  and  went  on  with 
her  cooking.  As  they  came  in  to  the  table,  she  called 
David's  attention  to  a  low  box  set  on  rockers,  and,  taking 
the  baby  from  her  husband's  arms,  carefully  placed  him, 
still  asleep,  in  the  quaint  nest. 

"Hoke  made  that  hisself,"  she  said  with  pride.  "And 
Cassandry,  she  made  that  kiver." 

Tliryng  touched  the  cover  reverently,  bending  over  it, 
and  left  the  cradle  rocking  as  he  sat  down  at  Hoke's  side 
and  began  to  put  fresh  butter  between  his  hot  biscuit, 
as  he  had  learned  to  do.  His  mother  would  have  flung 
up  her  hands  in  horror  had  she  seen  him  doing  this,  or 
could  she  have  known  how  many  such  he  had  devoured 
since  coming  to  recuperate  in  these  mountain  wilds. 

The  home  was  very  bare  and  simple,  but  sweet  and  clean, 
and  love  was  in  it.  To  sit  there  for  a  while  with  the  child- 
like young  couple,  enjoying  their  home  and  their  baby 
and  the  hospitality  generously  offered  according  to  their 
ability,  warmed  David's  heart,  and  he  rode  away  happier 
than  he  came. 

With  mind  absorbed  and  idle  rein,  he  allowed  his  horse 
to  stray  as  he  would,  while  his  thoughts  and  memory 
played  strange  tricks,  presenting  contrasting  pictures  to 
his  inward  vision.  Now  it  was  his  mother  reading  by 
the  evening  lamp,  carelessly  scanning  a  late  magazine, 
only  half  interested,  her  white  hair  arranged  in  shining 
puffs  high  on  her  head,  and  soft  lace  —  old  lace  —  falling 


168  The  Mountain  Girl 

from  open  sleeves  over  her  shapely  arms ;  and  Laura, 
red-cheeked  and  plump,  curled,  feet  and  all,  in  a  great 
lounging  chair,  poring  over  a  novel  and  yawning  now  and 
then,  her  dark  hair  carelessly  tied,  with  straight,  straying 
ends  hanging  about  her  face  as  he  had  many  a  time  seen 
her  after  playing  a  game  of  hockey  with  her  active,  romp- 
ing friends. 

His  mother  and  Laura  were  the  only  ones  at  home  now, 
since  the  big  elder  brother  was  gone.  Of  course  they  would 
miss  him  and  be  sad  sometimes,  but  Laura  would  enjoy  life 
as  much  as  ever  and  keep  the  home  bright  with  youth. 
Even  as  he  thought  of  them,  the  room  faded  and  his  own 
cabin  appeared  as  he  had  seen  it  the  day  before,  through 
the  open  window,  with  Cassandra  moving  about  in  her 
quiet,  gliding  way,  haloed  with  light.  Again  he  would  see 
a  picture  of  another  room,  all  white  and  gold,  with  slight 
French  chairs  and  tables,  and  couches  and  cushions,  and 
candelabra  of  quivering  crystals,  with  pale  green  walls 
and  gold-framed  paintings,  and  a  great,  three-cornered 
piano,  massive  and  dark,  where  a  slight,  fair  girl  sat  idly 
playing  tinkling  music  in  keeping  with  herself  and  the  room, 
but  quite  out  of  keeping  with  the  splendid  instrument. 

He  saw  people  all  about  her,  chatting,  laughing,  sipping 
tea,  and  eating  thin  bread  and  butter.  He  saw,  as  if  from 
a  distance,  another  man,  himself,  in  that  room,  standing 
near  the  piano  to  turn  her  music,  while  the  tinkling  runs 
and  glib,  expressionless  trills  wove  in  and  out,  a  ceaseless 
nothing. 

She  spent  years  learning  to  do  that,  he  thought,  and  any 
amount  of  money.  Oh,  well.  She  had  it  to  spend,  and 
of  what  else  were  they  capable  —  those  hands  ?  He  could 
see  them  jfluttering  caressingly  over  the  keys,  pink,  slender, 
pretty,  —  and  then  he  saw  other  hands,  somewhat  work- 
worn,  not  small  nor  yet  too  large,  but  white  and  shapely. 
Ah  !  Of  what  were  they  not  capable  ?  And  the  other 
girl  in  coarse  white  homespun,  seated  before  the  fire  in 
Hoke  Belew's  cabin,  holding  in  her  arms  the  small  bundle 
—  and  her  smile,  so  rare  and  fleeting  ! 

He  saw  again  the  handsome  sullen  youth  in  Bishop 
Towers'  garden,  regarding  him  over  the  hedge  with 
narrowed  eyes,  and  his  whole  nature  rebelled  and  cried  out 
as  before,  "What  a  waste  !"     Why  should  he  allow  it  to 


David  meets  an  Enemy  169 

go  on  ?     He  must  thrash  this  thing  out  once  for  all  before  . 
he  returned  to  his  cabin  —  the  right  and  the  wrong  of 
the  case  before  he  should  see  her  again,  while  as  yet  he 
could  be  engineer  of  his  own  forces  and  hold  his  hand  on 
the  throttle  to  guide  himself  safely  and  wisely. 

Could  he  succeed  in  influencing  her  to  set  her  young 
lover's  claims  one  side  ?  But  in  his  heart  he  knew  if  such 
a  thing  were  possible,  she  would  not  be  herself ;  she  would 
be  another  being,  and  his  love  for  her  would  cease.  No, 
he  must  see  her  but  little,  and  let  the  tragedy  go  on  even  as 
the  bishop  had  said  —  go  on  as  if  he  never  had  known  her. 
As  soon  as  possible  he  must  return  and  take  up  his  work 
where  he  could  not  see  the  slow  wreck  of  her  life.  A  heavy 
dread  settled  down  upon  him,  and  he  rode  on  with  bowed 
head,  until  his  horse  stumbled  and  thus  roused  him  from 
his  re  very. 

To  what  wild  spot  had  the  animal  brought  him  ?  David 
lifted  his  head  and  looked  about  him,  and  it  was  as  if  he 
had  been  caught  up  and  dropped  in  an  enchanted  wood. 
The  horse  had  climbed  among  great  boulders  and  paused 
beneath  an  enormous  overhanging  rock.  He  heard, 
off  at  one  side,  the  rushing  sound  of  a  mountain  stream 
and  judged  he  was  near  the  head  of  Lone  Pine  Creek. 
But  oh,  the  wildness  of  the  spot  and  the  beauty  of  it  and 
the  lonely  charm  !  He  tied  his  horse  to  a  lithe  limb  that 
swung  above  his  head  and,  dismounting,  clambered  on 
towards  the  rushing  water. 

The  place  was  so  screened  in  as  to  leave  no  vista  any- 
where, hiding  the  mountains  on  all  sides.  Light  green 
foliage  overhead,  where  branches  thickly  interlaced  from 
great  trees  growing  out  of  the  bank  high  above,  made  a 
cool,  lucent  shadowiness  all  around  him.  There  was  a 
delicious  odor  of  sweet-shrub  in  the  air,  and  the  fruity 
fragrance  of  the  dark,  wild  wake-robin  underfoot.  The 
tremendous  rocks  were  covered  with  the  most  exquisite 
forms  of  lichen  in  all  their  varied  shades  of  richness  and 
delicacy. 

He  began  carefully  removing  portions  here  and  there 
to  examine  under  his  microscope,  when  he  noticed,  almost 
crushed  under  his  foot,  a  pale  purple  orchid  like  the  one 
Cassandra  had  placed  on  his  table.  Always  thinking  of  her, 
he  stooped  suddenly  to  lift  the  frail  thing,  and  at  the  instant 


170  The  Mountain  Girl 

a  rifle-shot  rang  out  in  the  still  air,  and  a  bullet  meant 
for  his  heart  cut  across  his  shoulders  like  a  trail  of  fire  and 
flattened  itself  on  the  rock  where  he  had  been  at  work. 
At  the  same  moment,  with  a  bound  of  tiger-like  ferocity 
and  swiftness,  one  leaped  toward  him  from  a  near  mass 
of  laurel,  and  he  found  himself  grappling  for  life  or  death 
with  the  man  who  fired  the  shot. 

Not  a  word  was  spoken.  The  quick,  short  breathing, 
the  scufiling  of  feet  among  the  leaves,  and  the  snapping 
of  dead  twigs  underfoot  were  the  only  sounds.  Had  the 
youth  been  a  trained  wrestler,  David  would  have  known 
what  to  expect,  and  would  have  been  able  to  use  method 
in  his  defence.  As  it  was,  he  had  to  deal  with  an  enraged 
creature  who  fought  with  the  desperate  instinct  of  an 
antagonist  who  fights  to  the  death.  He  knew  that  the 
odds  were  against  him,  and  felt  rising  within  him  a  wild 
determination  to  win  the  combat,  and,  thinking  only  of 
Cassandra,  to  settle  thus  the  vexed  question,  to  fight  with 
the  blind  passion  and  the  primitive  right  of  the  strongest  ■ 
to  win  his  mate.  He  gathered  all  his  strength,  his  good 
English  mettle  and  nerve,  and  grappled  with  a  grip  of  steel.  ; 

This  way  and  that,  twisting,  turning,  stumbling  on  the 
uneven  ground,  with  set  teeth  and  faces  drawn  and  fierce,  , 
they  struggled,  and  all  the  time  the  light  tweed  coat  on  i 
David's  back  showed  a  deeper  stain  from  his  heart's  blood, 
and  his  face  grew  paler  and  his  breath  shorter.  Yet  a 
joy  leaped  within  him.  It  was  thus  he  might  save  her, 
either  to  win  her  or  to  die  for  her,  for  should  Frale  kill 
him,  she  would  turn  from  him  in  hopeless  horror,  and 
David,  even  in  dying,  would  save  her. 

Suddenly  the  battle  was  ended.  Thryng's  foot  turned, 
on  a  rounded  stone,  causing  him  to  lose  his  foothold.  At 
the  same  instant,  with  terrible  forward  impetus,  Frale 
closed  with  him,  bending  him  backward  until  his  head 
struck  the  lichen-covered  rock.  The  purple  orchid  was 
bruised  beneath  him,  and  its  color  deepened  with  his 
blood.  Then  Frale  rose  and  looked  down  upon  the  pallid, 
upturned  face  and  inert  body,  which  lay  as  he  had  crushed 
it  down.  As  he  stood  thus,  a  white  figure,  bareheaded  and 
alone,  came  swiftly  through  the  wall  of  laurel  which  hid 
them  and  pausing  terror-stricken  in  the  open  space,  looked 
from  one  to  the  other. 


"  /  take  it  back  -  back  fi'om  God-  the  promise  I  gave  you 
there  by  thefaiiy     Page  171. 


David  meets  an  Enemy  171 

For  an  instant  Cassandra  waited  thus,  as  if  she  too  were 
struck  dead  where  she  stood.  Then  she  looked  no  more 
on  the  fallen  man,  but  only  at  Frale,  with  eyes  immovable 
and  yet  withdrawn,  as  if  she  were  searching  in  her  own 
soul  for  a  thing  to  do,  while  her  heart  stood  still  and  her 
throat  closed.  Those  great  gray  eyes,  with  the  green  sea 
depths  in  them,  began  to  glow  with  a  cruel  light,  as  if  she 
too  could  kill,  —  as  if  they  were  drawing  slowly  from  the 
deep  well  of  her  being,  as  it  were,  a  sword  from  its  scab- 
bard wherewith  to  cut  him  through  the  heart.  Her  hand 
stole  to  her  throat  and  pressed  hard.  Then  she  lifted  it 
high  above  her  head  and  held  it,  as  if  in  an  instant  more 
one  might  see  the  invisible  sword  flash  forth  and  strike 
him.  Frale  cried  out  then,  "Don't,  don't  curse  me,  Cass,'* 
and  lifted  his  arm  to  shield  his  face,  while  great  beads  of 
moisture  stood  out  on  his  face. 

"It's  not  for  me  to  curse,  Frale."  Her  voice  was  low 
and  clear.  "Curses  come  from  hell,  like  what  you  been 
carrying  in  your  heart  that  made  you  do  this."  Her 
voice  grew  louder,  and  her  hand  trembled  and  shut  as  if  it 
grasped  something.  "I  take  it  back  —  back  from  God  — 
the  promise  I  gave  you  there  by  the  fall."  Then,  looking 
up,  her  voice  grew  low  again,  though  still  distinct.  "I 
take  that  promise  back  forever,  oh,  God  ! "  Her  hand 
dropped.  The  cruel  light  died  slowly  out  of  her  eyes>  and 
she  turned  and  knelt  by  the  prostrate  man,  and  began 
pulling  open  his  coat.     Frale  took  one  step  toward  her. 

"Cass,"  he  said,  with  shaking  voice,  "I'll  he'p  you." 

Her  hands  clinched  into  David's  coat  as  she  held  it. 
"Go  back.  Don't  you  touch  even  his  least  finger,"  she 
cried,  looking  up  at  him  from  where  she  knelt  like  a  crea- 
ture hurt  to  the  heart,  defending  its  own.  "You've  done 
your  work.  Take  your  face  where  I  never  can  see  it 
again," 

He  still  stood  and  looked  down  on  her.  She  turned 
again  to  David,  and,  thrusting  her  hand  into  his  bosom, 
drew  it  forth  with  blood  upon  it. 

"I  say,  you  Frale  !"  she  cried,  holding  it  toward  him, 
quivering  with  the  ferocity  she  could  no  longer  restrain, 
"leave  here,  or  with  this  blood  on  my  hand  I'll  call  all 
hell  to  curse  you." 

Frale  turned  with  bowed  head  and  left  her  there. 


CHAPTER   XVIII 

IN   WHICH   DAVID   THRYNG  AWAKES 

Thryng  lay  in  Hoke  Belew's  cabin,  —  not  in  the  one 
great  living-room  where  were  the  fireplace  and  the  large 
bed  and  the  tiny  cradle,  but  in  the  smaller  addition  at 
the  side,  entered  only  from  the  porch  which  extended 
along  the  front  of  both  parts. 

He  still  lay  on  the  litter  upon  which  he  had  been  placed 
to  carry  him  down  the  mountain,  —  an  improvised  thing 
made  by  stretching  quilts  across  two  poles  of  slender 
green  pines.  The  litter  was  placed  on  low  trestles  to  raise 
it  from  the  floor,  and  close  to  the  open  door  to  give  him 
air.  David  had  not  regained  consciousness  since  his  hurt, 
but  lay  like  one  dead,  with  closed  eyes  and  blanched  lips ; 
yet  they  knew  him  to  be  living. 

Cassandra  sat  beside  him  alone.  All  night  long  she  had 
been  there  unsleeping,  hollow-eyed,  and  worn  with  tearless 
grief.  She  had  done  all  she  knew  how  to  do.  Before  going 
for  help  she  had  removed  his  clothing  and  bound  about 
his  body  strips  torn  from  her  dress  to  stop  the  bleeding 
of  his  shoulders  where  the  silver  bullet  had  torn  across 
them.  How  the  ball  had  missed  giving  a  mortal  wound 
was  like  a  miracle. 

Hoke  Belew  had  tried  to  arouse  him,  but  had  failed. 
At  intervals,  during  the  night,  Cassandra  had  managed 
to  drop  a  little  whiskey  between  his  lips  with  a  spoon, 
and  she  had  bathed  him  with  the  stimulant  over  heart  and 
lungs,  and  chafed  his  hands,  and  had  tried  to  warm  his 
feet  by  rubbing  them  and  wrapping  them  up  between 
jugs  of  hot  water.  She  had  bathed  his  bruised  head  and 
cut  away  the  softly  curling  hair  from  the  spot  where  his 
head  had  struck  the  rock.  What  more  she  could  do  she 
knew  not,  and  now  she  sat  at  his  side  still  chafing  his  hands 
and  waiting  for  Hoke  Belew's  return. 

Hoke  had  gone  to  the  station  to  telegraph  for  Bishop 

172 


David  Thryng  Awakes  173 

Towers;'  Fortunately,  as  the  hotel  was  so  soon  to  be 
QP^ned  ^nd  the  busy  summer  life  to  begin,  the  operator 
was.  already  there. 

Azalea,  in  the  great  room,  was  preparing  dinner,  stop- 
ping now  and  then  to  touch  her  baby's  cradle,  or  to  stoop 
a  moment  over  the  treasure  therein.  Aunt  Sally  sat  in  the 
doorway  smoking  her  cob  pipe  and  telling  grewsome  tales 
of  how  she  had  "seen  people  hurted  that-a-way  and  nevah 
come  out  en  hit."  Sally  had  ridden  over  to  give  help  and 
sympathy,  but  Cassandra  had  said  she  would  watch  alone. 
She  had  eaten  nothing  since  the  day  before,  only  sipping 
the  coffee  Azalea  had  brought  her. 

It  was  one  of  those  breathless  hours  before  a  rain  when 
not  a  leaf  stirs ;  even  the  birds  were  silent.  Cassandra 
tried  once  more  to  give  David  a  few  drops  of  the  whiskey, 
and  this  time  it  seemed  as  if  he  swallowed  a  little.  She 
thought  she  saw  his  eyelids  quiver,  and  her  heart  pounded 
suffocatingly  in  her  breast.  She  dropped  beside  him  on 
her  knees  and  once  again  tried  to  give  him  the  only  stimu- 
lant they  had.  This  time  she  was  sure  he  took  it,  and, 
still  kneeling  there,  she  bowed  her  head  and  pressed  her 
lips  upon  the  hand  she  had  been  chafing.  Did  it  move  or 
not  ?  She  could  not  tell,  and  again  she  sat  gazing  in  the 
still,  white  face.  Oh,  the  suspense  !  Oh,  the  joy  that 
was  agony  !  If  this  were  truly  the  awakening  and  meant 
life  !  In  her  intensity  of  longing  for  some  further  signs 
she  drew  slowly  nearer  and  nearer,  until  at  last  her  lips 
touched  his.  Then  in  shame  she  hid  her  face  in  the  quilt 
at  his  side  and,  weak  with  the  exhaustion  of  her  long  an- 
guish and  fasting  and  watching,  she  wept  the  first  tears 
—  tears  of  hope  she  was  not  strong  enough  to  bear.  As 
she  thus  knelt,  weeping  softly,  his  fluttering  eyelids  lifted 
and  he  saw  her  there,  and  felt  the  quivering  hand  beneath 
his  head. 

Not  understanding  how  or  why  this  should  be,  he  waited 
perfectly  still,  trying  to  gather  his  thoughts.  A  great 
peace  was  in  his  heart  —  a  peace  and  content  so  sweet  he 
did  not  wish  to  move.  Lingering  beneath  this  content, 
he  held  a  dim  memory  of  a  great  anger  —  a  horror  of  anger, 
when  he  saw  red,  and  hungered  for  blood.  Vaguely  it 
seemed  to  him  now  that  all  was  as  he  wished  it  to  be  with 
Cassandra  near.     He  liked  to  feel  her  hand  beneath  his 


174  The  Mountain  Girl 

head  and  her  other  hand  upon  his  own,  and  her  heavy 
bronze  hair  so  close,  and  he  closed  his  eyes  once  more  to 
shut  out  all  else,  for  the  room  was  strange  to  him  —  this 
raftered  place  all  whitewashed  from  ceiling  to  floor. 

He  had  forgotten  what  had  happened,  but  Cassandra 
was  there,  and  he  was  content.  Something  had  touched 
his  lips  and  brought  him  back,  he  was  sure  of  that,  and  his 
weakly  beating  heart  stirred  to  more  vigorous  action.  He 
turned  his  head  a  little,  a  very  little,  toward  her,  and  his  fin- 
gers closed  about  her  hand  to  hold  it  there.  She  lifted  her 
head  then,  and  they  looked  into  each  other's  eyes,  a  long,  deep 
look.  Later,  when  Azalea  entered,  she  found  them  both 
sleeping,  Cassandra's  hand  still  beneath  his  head,  his  face 
pressed  to  her  soft  hair  and  his  free  arm  flung  about  her. 

Azalea  stole  away  and  hurried  with  the  news  to  old 
Sally,  who  also  crept  in  and  looked  on  them  and  stole  away. 

"Yas,  she  sure  have  saved  his  life,"  said  Sally.  "Heap 
o'  times  they  nevah  do  come  out  en  that  thar  kin'  o'  sleep. 
I  done  seed  sech  before." 

"  Ef  he  have  come  to  hisself,  you  reckon  I  bettah  wake 
'em  up  and  give  her  a  lee  tie  hot  milk?  She  hain't  eat 
nothin'  sence  yestiday." 

"  Naw,  leave  'em  be.  No  body  nevah  hain't  starved  in 
his  sleep  yit,  I  reckon." 

"He  hain't  eat  nothin',  neithah.  He  sure  have  been 
bad  hurted." 

The  two  women  sat  in  the  large  room  and  talked  in  low 
tones,  while  at  intervals  Azalea  crept  to  the  door  and 
looked  in  on  them. 

At  last  the  baby  wailed  out  with  lusty  cry,  which 
sounded  through  the  stillness  of  the  house  and  roused 
Cassandra,  but  as  she  lifted  her  head,  David  clung  to  her 
and  drew  her  cheek  to  his  lips. 

"Are  you  hurt  V  he  murmured.  In  some  strange  way 
he  had  confused  matters,  and  thought  it  was  she  who  had 
been  shot. 

"It's  not  me  that's  hurt,"  she  said  tenderly. 

Azalea  hurried  away  and  returned  w4th  the  warm  milk 
she  had  prepared  for  Cassandra,  who  took  it  and  held  it 
to  David's  lips. 

"Drink  it,  Doctah.  She  won't  touch  anything  till  you 
do." 


David  Thryng  Awakes  175 

Then  he  obeyed,  slowly  drinking  it  all,  his  eyes  fixed 
on  Cassandra's  as  a  child  looks  up  to  his  mother.  As  she 
rose,  he  held  her  with  his  free  hand. 

"What  is  it.''  How  long — "  His  voice  sounded  thin 
and  weak.     ''Strange  —  I  can't  lift  this  arm  at  all.     Tell 


me  — 


"  Seems  like  I  can't.   When  you  are  strong  again,  I  will." 

Feebly  he  tried  to  raise  himself.  "Don't,  oh,  don't, 
Doctah  Thryng.  If  you  bleed  again,  you'll  die,"  she 
wailed. 

"Sit  near  me." 

She  drew  a  low  chair  and  sat  near  him,  as  she  had  through 
the  slow  and  anxious  hours,  and  again  he  drowsed  off,  only 
to  open  his  eyes  from  time  to  time  as  if  to  assure  himself 
that  she  was  still  there.  Again  Azalea  brought  her  milk 
and  white  beaten  biscuit,  hot  and  sweet,  and  Cassandra 
ate.  When  David  opened  his  eyes  to  look  at  her,  she 
smiled  on  him,  but  would  not  let  him  talk  to  her. 

Nevertheless  his  mind  was  busy  trying  to  understand 
why  he  was  lying  thus,  and  dimly  the  events  of  the  last 
few  days  came  back  to  him,  shadowy  and  confused. 
When  he  looked  up  and  saw  her  smile,  his  heart  was  satis- 
fied, but  when  he  closed  his  eyes  again,  a  strange  sense  of 
tragedy  settled  down  upon  him,  but  what  or  v/hy  he  knew 
not.  Suddenly  he  called  to  her  as  if  from  his  sleep,  "Have 
I  killed  some  one  ?  "  and  there  was  horror  in  his  voice. 

"No,  no,  Doctor  Thryng.  You  been  nigh  about  killed 
3^ourself.  Oh,  why  didn't  I  send  for  a  doctor  who  could 
do  you  right !  Bishop  Towers  won't  know  anything  about 
this." 

"What  have  you  done  ?'* 

"I  sent  for  Bishop  Towers." 

"  Who  did  me  up  like  this  ?  " 

She  was  silent  and,  rising  quickly,  stepped  out  on  the 
porch,  her  cheeks  flaming  crimson.  Yesterday  in  her 
terror  and  frenzy  she  could  have  done  anything ;  but  now 
—  with  his  eyes  fixed  on  her  face  so  intently  —  she  could 
not  reply  nor  tell  how,  alone,  she  had  stripped  him  to  the 
waist  and  bound  him  about  with  the  homespun  cotton  of 
her  dress  to  stanch  the  bleeding  before  hurrying  down  the 
mountain  for  help. 

Instinctively  she  had  done  the  right  thing  and  had  done 


176  The  Mountain  Girl 

it  well,  but  now  she  could  not  talk  about  it.  David  tried 
to  call  after  her,  but  she  had  gone  around  into  the  next  room 
and  taken  the  baby  from  his  cradle,  where  he  was  wailing 
his  demands  for  attention.  Azalea  had  gone  out  for  a 
moment,  and  Aunt  Sally  "  'lowed  the'  wa'n't  no  use  sp'ilin 
him  by  takin'  him  up  every  time  he  fretted  fer  hit.  Hit 
would  do  him  good  to  holler  an'  stretch."  So  she  sat  still 
and  smoked. 

Cassandra  walked  up  and  down  the  porch,  comforted 
by  the  feeling  of  the  child  in  her  arms.  The  small  head 
bobbed  this  way  and  that  until  she  pressed  it  against  her 
cheek  and  held  him  close,  and  he  gradually  settled  down 
on  her  bosom,  his  face  tucked  softly  in  the  curve  of  her 
neck,  and  slept.  She  heard  David  speaking  her  name  and 
went  to  him,  but  he  only  looked  up  at  her  and  smiled. 

"I'm  sorry  I  left  you  alone,"  she  said  tenderly;  "I'll  call 
Aunt  Sally."  ^ 

"No  —  wait  —  I  only  want  —  to  look  at  you." 

She  stood  swaying  her  lithe  body  to  rock  the  sleeping 
child.  David  thought  he  never  had  seen  anything  lovelier. 
How  serious  his  wounds  were,  he  did  not  know.  But  one 
thing  he  knew  well,  and  to  that  one  thought  he  clung.  He 
wanted  Cassandra  where  he  could  see  her  all  the  time.  He 
wished  she  would  talk  to  him,  and  not  let  him  lose  con- 
sciousness, relapsing  into  the  horror  of  a  strange  dream  that 
continued  to  haunt  him. 

"Do  you  love  that  baby  ?"  he  asked,  his  voice  faint  and 
high. 

"He's  a  right  nice  baby." 

"  I  say  —  do  you  love  him  ?  " 

"Why  —  I  reckon  I  do.  Don't  try  to  move  that  way, 
Doctah.  You  may  not  be  done  right,  and  you'll  bleed 
again.  Oh,  we  don't  know  —  we  are  so  ignorant  — 
Azalie  and  me  — " 

He  smiled.     "Nothing  matters  now,"  he  said. 

They  heard  voices,  and  she  looked  out  from  the  doorway. 
"It's  Hoke.  They've  sent  old  Doctor  Bartlett.  I'm  so 
glad.  Aunt  Sally,  I  reckon  they'll  need  hot  water.  Get 
some  ready,  will  you  ?  " 

"  Cassandra,  Cassandra  ! "  called  David,  almost  irritably. 

She  came  back  to  him. 
Where  are  they  ?** 


a  ■ 


David  Thryng  Awakes  177 

"Down  the  road  a  piece.  I'm  glad.  You'll  be  done 
right  now." 

"Stoop  to  me."  She  obeyed,  and  the  free  arm  caught 
and  held  her,  then,  as  the  voices  drew  near,  released  her 
with  glowing  eyes  and  burning  cheeks. 

She  stepped  out  on  the  porch  to  meet  them,  half  hiding 
her  face  behind  the  babe  in  her  arms,  and  old  Dr.  Bartlett, 
as  he  looked  on  her  with  less  prejudiced  and  more  expe- 
rienced eyes,  thought  he  too  never  had  seen  anything 
lovelier. 

"He's  awake,"  said  Cassandra  quietly  to  Hoke,  and  the 
two  men  went  to  David.  She  carried  the  child  back  and 
asked  Aunt  Sally  to  wait  on  them,  while  she  sat  down  in  a 
low  splint  rocker,  clinging  to  the  little  one  and  listening, 
with  throbbing  nerves,  to  the  voices  in  the  room  beyond. 

When  Hoke  came  out  to  them  a  moment  later,  Azalea 
began  eagerly  to  question  him,  but  Cassandra  was  silent. 

"Doctah  says  we  bettah  tote  'im  ovah  to  his  own  place 
to-day.  Aunt  Sally  'lows  she  can  bide  thar  fer  a  while  an' 
see  him  well  again." 

"You  hain't  goin'  to  'low  that,  be  ye,  Hoke?  Hit 
mount  look  like  we  wa'n't  willin'  fer  him  to  bide  'long  of  us." 

"Hit  hain't  what  looks  like,  hit's  what's  best  fer  him,'* 
said  Hoke,  sagely.  "Whatevah  doctah  says,  we'll  do." 
Then  Hoke  laughed  quietly.  "He  done  tol'  Doctor 
Bartlett  'at  he  reckoned  somebody  mus'  'a'  took  him  fer 
some  sorter  wild  creetur  an'  shot  him  by  mistake.  I 
guess  Frale's  safe  enough  f'om  him,  if  the  fool  boy  only 
know'd  hit." 

"Frale,  he's  plumb  crazy,  the  way  he's  b'en  actin'," 
said  Azalea. 

"An'  Bishop  Towahs  he  telegrafted  'at  he'd  send  this 
here  doctah,  an'  he'd  come  up  to-morrer  with  Miz  Towahs 
to  stop  ovah  with  you,  so  I  reckon  yer  maw  wants  you 
down  thar,  Cass." 

Cassandra  rose  quickly  and  placed  the  sleeping  child 
gently  in  his  cradle  box.  "I'll  go,"  she  said.  "There's 
no  need  for  me  here  now.  Hoke  —  you've  been  right 
good — "  She  stopped  abruptly  and  turned  to  his  wife. 
"I  must  wear  your  dress  off,  Azalie,  but  I'll  send  it  back 
by  Hoke  as  soon  as  hit's  been  washed."  She  went  out  the 
door  almost  as  if  she  were  eager  to  escape. 


178  The  Mountain  Girl 

"Hain't  ye  goin*  to  wait  fer  yer  horse?"  said  Hoke, 
laughing.     *'Set  a  minute  till  I  fetch  him." 

*'I  clean  forgot,"  she  said,  and  when  he  had  left,  she 
turned  to  her  friend.  "Azalie  —  don't  say  anything  to 
Hoke  about  me  —  us.  Did  Aunt  Sally  see  .^  You  know  I 
didn't  know  myself  until  I  woke  and  found  myself  there. 
I'd  been  trying  to  make  him  take  a  little  whiskey  —  and  — 
I  must  have  gone  asleep  like  I  was  —  and  he  woke  up  and 
must  'a'  felt  like  he  had  to  kiss  somebody  —  he  was  that 
glad  to  be  alive." 

"Nevah  you  fret,  child."  Azalea  smiled  a  quiet  smile. 
*'I'm  not  one  to  talk ;  anyway,  I  reckon  Doctah  Thryng's 
about  right.     He  sure  have  been  good  to  me." 

The  widow  sat  on  her  little  stoop,  waiting  and  watch- 
ing, as  her  daughter  rode  to  the  door  and  wearily  alighted. 

"Cassandry  Merlin!  For  the  Lord's  sake!  What-all 
is  up  now  ?  Hoyle  —  where  is  that  boy  ?  —  Hoyle,  come 
here  an'  take  the  horse  fer  sister.  Be  ye  most  dade, 
honey  ?     I  reckon  ye  be.     Ye  look  like  hit." 

Cassandra  kissed  her  mother  and  passed  on  into  the 
house.  *'I  couldn't  send  you  word  last  night;  anyway,  I 
reckoned  you'd  rest  better  if  you  didn't  know,  for  we-all 
thought  Doctor  Thryng  was  sure  killed.  Did  Hoke  tell 
you  this  morning  '^  " 

"I  'lowed  you  was  stoppin'  with  Azalie  —  'at  baby  was 
sick  or  somethin'  —  when  Hoyle  went  up  to  the  cabin  an' 
said  doctah  wa'n't  there.  Frale  sure  have  done  for  hisself . 
I  reckon  you  are  cl'ar  shet  o'  him  now,  an'  I'm  glad  ye  be, 
since  he  done  took  to  the  idee  o'  marryin'  with  you.  What- 
all  have  he  done  the  doctah  this-a-way  fer  ^  The'  wa'n't 
nothin'  'twixt  him  an'  doctah.  Pore  fool  boy  he  !  I'll 
be  glad  fer  yuer  sake,  Cass,  if  he'll  quit  these  here 
mountains." 

"Oh,  mother,  mother!  Don't  talk  about  me,  don't 
think  of  me  !  The  doctor's  nigh  about  killed  —  let  alone 
the  sin  Frale  has  on  him  now."  Wearied  beyond  further 
endurance,  she  flung  herself  on  her  bed  and  broke  into 
uncontrollable  sobbing,  while  Hoyle  stood  in  the  middle 
of  the  room  and  gazed  with  wide-eyed  wonder. 

"Be  the  doctah  dade,  maw?"  he  asked,  in  an  awed 
whisper. 


David  Thryng  Awakes  179 


((' 


'No,  child,  no.  You  fetch  a  leetle  light  ud  an*  chips,  an* 
we'll  make  her  some  coffee.  Sister's  that  tired,  pore  child  ! 
Have  ye  been  up  all  night,  Cass  ?  " 

She  nodded  her  head  and  still  sobbed  on. 

"He's  gettin'  on  all  right  now,  be  he  ? " 

Again  she  nodded,  but  did  not  take  her  hands  from  her 
face. 

*'Then  you'd  ought  to  be  glad.  Hit  ain't  like  Frale 
had  of  killed  him.  Farwell,  he  had  many  a  time  sech  as 
that  with  one  an'  another,  an'  he  nevah  come  to  no  harm 
f'om  hit.  I  reckon  Frale'll  be  safe.  Be  ye  cryin'  fer 
him,  Cass  ?  Pore  child  !  I  nevah  did  think  you  keered 
fer  Frale  that-a-way." 

Then  Cassandra  burst  forth  with  impetuous  fire.  "Oh, 
mother,  mother  !  Never  say  that  name  to  me  again. 
IMother,  I  saw  them  !  I  saw  them  fighting  —  and  all 
the  time  the  doctor  was  bleeding  —  bleeding  and  dying, 
where  Frale  had  shot  him.  I  don't  know  how  long  they'd 
been  fighting,  but  I  came  there  and  I  saw  them.  I  saw 
him  slip  and  how  Frale  crushed  him  down  —  down  — 
and  his  head  struck  the  rock.  I  saw  —  and  I  almost  cursed 
Frale.  I  hope  I  didn't  —  oh,  I  hope  not !  But  mother, 
mother !  Don't  ask  me  anything  more  now.  Oh,  I 
want  to  cry  !     I  want  to  cry  and  never  stop." 

While  she  lay  thus  weeping,  the  soft  rain  that  had  been 
threatening  all  day  began  pattering  down,  blessed  and 
soothing,  the  rain  to  the  earth  and  the  tears  to  the  girl. 

In  spite  of  the  rain,  Thryng  was  carried  home  that  after- 
noon according  to  the  physician's  orders,  and  placed  in  his 
cabin  with  Aunt  Sally  to  stand  guard  over  him  and  provide 
for  his  wants.  A  bed  was  improvised  for  her  on  the  floor 
of  the  cabin,  while  David  lay  in  his  own  bed  in  his  canvas 
room,  bandaged  about  both  body  and  head,  and  withal 
moderately  comfortable,  sufficiently  himself  to  realize 
what  had  occurred,  and  overjoyed  because  of  the  reward 
his  wounds  had  brought  him. 

Doctor  Bartlett  came  down  to  the  Fall  Place  and  was 
given  the  bed  in  the  loom  shed  as  David  had  been,  and  had 
the  pleasure  of  again  seeing  Cassandra,  who,  her  tears  dried, 
and  her  manner  composed,  looked  after  his  needs  as  if  no 
storms  had  ever  shaken  her  soul. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

IN   WHICH    DAVID    SENDS    HOKE    BELEW    ON   A    COMMISSION, 
AND    CASSANDRA   MAKES   A    CONFESSION 

Early  one  morning  Hoke  Belew  put  his  head  in  at  the 
door  of  Thryng's  cabin,  where  Aunt  Sally  was  squatted 
before  the  fireplace,  preparing  breakfast  for  the  patient. 

*' How's  doc  ?"  he  asked. 

"He's  right  fa'r.  He  mount  be  worse  an'  he  mount  be 
bettah." 

"You  reckon  I  mount  go  in  yandah  whar  he  is  at  ? " 

"Ye  can  look  an'  see  is  he  awake.  I'm  gittin'  his  hot 
bread  an'  coffee.  You  bettah  bide  an'  have  a  leetle,"  she 
said,  with  ever  ready  hospitality. 

He  crossed  the  floor  with  careful  steps  and  paused  in 
the  doorway  of  the  canvas  room,  big  and  smiling. 

"That  you,  Hoke  .^  Come  in,"  said  David,  cheerfully. 
He  extended  a  hand  which  Hoke  took  in  his  and  held 
aw^kwardly,  shocked  at  the  white  face  before  him. 

"Ye  do  look  puny,"  he  said  at  last.  "But  we-uns  sure 
be  glad  yer  livin'.     Ye  tol'  me  to  come  early,  so  I  come." 

"It's  awfully  good  of  you.  Bring  a  chair  and  sit  near, 
so  we  can  talk  a  bit.  Now,  Hoke,  laid  up  here  as  I  am,  I 
need  your  help.  I  want  to  send  you  to  Farington  or  Lone 
Pine  —  somewhere  —  I  don't  know  where  such  things  are 
to  be  had  —  but,  Hoke,  you've  been  married  and  know  all 
about  what's  needed  here." 

"Ye  want  me  to  git  ye  a  license,  I  reckon,"  said  Hoke, 
grinning,  "an'  ye  mount  send  me  a  errant  I'd  like  a  heap 
worse  —  that's  so ;  but  what  good  will  hit  be  to  ye  now  ? 
You  can't  stan'  on  your  feet." 

"I  can  put  it  under  my  pillow  and  keep  it  to  get  well  on. 
See  here,  Hoke.  I  don't  even  know  if  she'll  marry  me; 
she  has  not  said  so,  but  I'll  be  ready.  You'll  keep  this 
quiet  for  me,  Hoke  ?  Because  it  would  trouble  her  if  the 
whole  mountain  side  should  know  what  I  have  done  before 
she  does.     Yet  a  girl  like  Cassandra  is  worth  winning  if 

180 


Cassandra's  Confession  181 

you  have  to  go  to  the  edge  of  the  grave  to  do  it,  so  when- 
ever she  will  have  me,  I  want  to  be  ready." 

They  talked  in  low  tones,  Hoke  leaning  forward  close 
to  David,  his  elbows  on  his  knees.  '*I  reckon  you  are 
a-thinkin'  to  bide  on  here  'long  o'  we-uns  an'  not  carry  her 
off  nowhar  else  V^  he  asked  gravely. 

David's  paleness  left  him  for  a  moment,  as  the  warm 
tide  swept  upward  from  his  heart.  "My  home  is  not  in 
this  country,  and  wherever  a  man  goes,  he  expects  to  take 
his  wife  with  him.  Don't  you  people  here  in  the  moun- 
tains do  the  same  ? " 

*'I  reckon  so,  but  hit  would  nigh  about  kill  Azalie  if  she 
war  to  lose  Cass.  They  have  been  frien's  evah  sence  they 
war  littlin's." 

"Hoke,  if  you  were  to  find  it  necessary  to  go  away  any- 
where, would  you  leave  your  wife  behind  to  please  Cas- 
sandra Merlin  .f*"  The  man  was  silent,  and  David  con- 
tinued. "Before  you  were  married  if  you  had  known 
there  was  another  man,  and  a  criminal  at  that,  hanging 
around  determined  to  get  her,  wouldn't  you  have  married 
her  out  of  hand  as  soon  as  you  could  get  her  consent .?  It's 
my  opinion,  knowing  the  sort  of  man  you  are,  that  you 
would." 

"  I  sure  would." 

"Then  you  can  understand  why  I  wish  to  have  a  mar- 
riage license  under  my  pillow." 

"I  reckon  so  —  but  —  you  —  you-all  hain't  quite  our 
kind  —  not  bein'  kin  to  none  of  us  —  You  understand  me, 
suh.  We-uns  are  a  proud  people  here,  an'  we  think  a 
heap  o'  our  women.  Hit  would  be  right  hard  should  you 
git  sorter  tired  o'  Cassandry  when  you  come  to  git  her 
amongst  your  people  —  bein'  she  hain't  like  none  o'  your 
folks,  understand;  an'  Cassandry,  she's  sorter  hard  hit 
jest  now,  she  don't  rightly  know  what-all  she  do  think. 
Me  an'  Azalie,  we  been  speakin'  right  smart  together  — 
an'  —  well,  we  do  sure  think  a  heap  o'  you,  Doc  —  an' 
hit  ain't  no  disrespect  to  you-uns,  neither.  Have  you 
said  anything  to  her  maw  ?  " 

"Not  a  word.  When  I  learned  another  man  was  before 
me,  I  stood  one  side  as  an  honorable  man  should  and  gave 
him  his  chance.  But  when  it  comes  to  being  attacked  by 
the  other  man  and  shot  in  the  back  —    by  heaven  !  no 


182  The  Mountain  Girl 

power  on  earth  will  hold  me  from  trying  to  win  her.  As  for 
the  other  matter,  never  you  fear.     Be  my  friend,  Hoke.'* 

*'Waal,  I  reckon  you'll  have  yer  own  way,  an'  I  mount 
as  well  git  hit  fer  ye,  but  I  did  promise  Azalie  'at  I'd  speak 
that  word  to  ye,"  said  the  young  man,  rising  with  an  air  of 
relief. 

"Tell  your  wife  that  you  are  both  of  you  quite  right,  and 
that  I  am  right  also.  Just  hunt  up  my  trousers,  will  you  ? 
I  want  my  pocket-book.  If  I  have  to  sign  anything  before 
anybody  —  bring  him  here.  I  don't  care  what  you  do,  so 
you  get  it.  There,  on  that  card  you  have  it  all  —  my  full 
name  and  all  that,  you  know." 

David  tried  to  eat  what  Sally  prepared  for  him,  using 
his  unbound  hand;  but  his  egg  was  hard,  his  coffee 
thick  and  boiled.  He  could  not  drink  it  very  well  for  his 
head  was  too  low,  and  he  could  not  raise  himself,  so  he 
lay  silent  and  uncomfortable,  watching  her  move  about  his 
rooms,  wearing  her  great  black  sunbonnet.  She  appeared 
kindly  and  pleasant  when  he  could  see  her  face,  which  was 
thin  and  very  much  lined,  but  motherly  and  good.  He 
fell  in  the  way  of  calling  her  "Aunt  Sally"  as  others  did, 
and  this  seemed  to  please  her.  She  treated  him  as  if  he 
were  a  big  boy  who  did  not  know  what  was  good  for  him- 
self. She  called  all  the  green  blossoming  things  with 
which  Cassandra  had  adorned  the  cabin,  "trash,"  and 
asked  who  had  "toted  hit  thar." 

Waiting  and  listening,  sure  Cassandra  would  not  leave 
him  all  day  without  coming  to  him,  even  though  Aunt 
Sally  had  taken  him  in  charge,  David's  mind  was  full  of 
her.  If  he  closed  his  eyes,  he  saw  her.  If  he  opened  them 
and  watched  Sally's  meagre  form  and  black  sunbonnet 
moving  about,  he  thought  what  it  might  be  to  see  Cassan- 
dra there. 

He  could  not  and  would  not  look  at  the  future.  The 
picture  Hoke  Belew  had  summoned  up  when  he  had  sug- 
gested the  taking  of  Cassandra  away  among  people  alien 
to  her,  he  put  from  him.  He  would  not  see  it  nor  think  of 
it.  The  present  was  his,  and  it  was  all  he  had,  perhaps  all 
he  ever  would  have ;  and  now  he  would  not  allow  one  little 
joy  of  it  to  escape  him.  He  would  be  greedy  of  it  and  have 
all  the  gladness  of  the  moments  as  they  came. 


Cassandra's  Confession  18S 

He  could  see  her  down  below  making  ready  for  their 
visitors,  and  he  knew  she  would  not  come  until  the  last 
task  was  done,  but  meantime  his  patience  was  wearing 
away.  Aunt  Sally  finished  her  work,  and  David  could 
see  her  from  where  he  lay,  seated  in  the  doorway  with  her 
pipe,  looking  out  on  the  gently  falling  rain. 

Without,  all  was  very  peaceful ;  only  within  himself  was 
turmoil  and  impatience.  But  he  knew  that  to  remain 
calm  and  unmoved  was  to  keep  back  his  fever  and  hasten 
recuperation,  so  he  closed  his  eyes  and  tried  to  live  for  the 
moment  in  the  remembrance  of  that  awakening  when  he 
had  found  her  kneeling  at  his  side.  Thus  he  dropped  to 
sleep,  and  again,  when  he  awoke,  he  found  Cassandra  there 
as  if  in  answer  to  his  silent  call. 

She  was  seated  quietly  sewing,  as  if  it  were  no  unusual 
thing  for  her  to  visit  him  thus,  and  when  his  earnest  gaze 
caused  her  to  look  up,  she  only  smiled  without  pertur- 
bation and  came  to  him. 

"I  sent  Aunt  Sally  down  to  see  mother  while  I  could 
stay  by  you  and  do  for  you  a  little,''  she  said. 

Calm  and  restful  she  seemed,  yet  when  he  extended  his 
free  hand  and  took  hers,  he  felt  a  tremor  in  her  touch  that 
delighted  his  heart.     He  brought  it  to  his  lips. 

*'I've  been  needing  you  all  the  morning.  Aunt  Sally 
has  done  everything  —  all  she  could.  If  I  should  let  you 
have  this  hand  again,  would  you  go  so  far  away  from  me 
that  I  could  not  reach  you  .^" 

*'Not  if  you  want  me  near." 

"Then  put  away  your  sewing  and  bring  your  chair  close 
to  me,  and  let  us  talk  together  while  we  may." 

She  obeyed  and  sat  looking  away  from  him  out  through 
the  open  door.  Were  her  eyes  searching  for  the  mountain 
top  ? 

"You  have  thoughts  —  sweet,  big  thoughts,  dear  girl; 
put  them  in  words  for  me  now,  while  we  are  so  blessedly 
alone." 

"I  can't  say  rightly  what  I  think.  Seems  like  if  I  had 
some  other  way  —  something  besides  words  to  tell  my 
thoughts  with,  I  could  do  it  better ;  but  words  are  all  we 
have  —  and  seems  like  when  I  want  them  most  they  won't 


come." 


(( 


That's  the  way  with  all  of  us.     Don't  you  see  you  are 


184  The  Mountain  Girl 

still  beyond  my  reach  ?  Come.  If  you  can't  tell  your 
thoughts  in  words,  give  them  by  the  touch  of  your  hands 
as  you  did  a  moment  ago." 

She  did  as  he  bade  her  and,  leaning  forward,  took  his 
hand  in  both  her  own. 

"That's  right.  I'll  teach  you  how  to  tell  your  thoughts 
without  words.  Now,  how  came  you  to  find  us  the  other 
day?" 

"I  don't  know  myself.  It  was  a  strange  way.  First  I 
rode  down  to  Teasley's  Mill  to  —  to  try  to  persuade  them 
—  Giles  Teasley  —  to  allow  him  to  go  free."  She  paused 
and  put  her  hand  to  her  throat,  as  her  way  was.  "I  think. 
Doctor  Thryng,  I'd  better  build  up  the  fire  and  get  you 
some  hot  milk.  Doctor  Bartlett  said  you  must  have  it 
often  —  and  —  to  keep  you  very  quiet." 

"Not  until  you  tell  me  now  —  this  moment  —  what  I 
ask  you.  You  went  to  the  mill  to  try  to  help  Frale  out  of 
his  trouble.     Cassandra,  have  you  loved  that  boy  ?'* 

Her  face  assumed  its  old  look  of  masklike  impassivity. 
"I  reckoned  he  might  hold  himself  steady  and  do  right  — 
would  they  only  leave  him  be  —  and  give  him  the  chance  —  " 

"Cassandra,  answer  me.  Was  it  for  love  of  him  that 
you  gave  him  your  promise  ?  " 

Her  face  grew  white,  and  for  a  moment  she  bowed  her 
head  on  his  hand. 

"Please,  Doctor  Thryng,  let  me  tell  you  the  strange  part 
first,  then  you  can  answer  that  question  in  your  own  way." 
She  lifted  her  head  and  looked  steadily  in  his  eyes.  "You 
remember  that  day  we  went  to  Cate  Irwin's  ?  When  we 
came  to  the  place  where  we  can  see  far  —  far  over  the 
mountains  —  I  laughed  —  with  something  glad  in  my 
heart.  It  was  the  same  this  time  when  I  got  to  that  far 
open  place.  All  at  once  it  seemed  like  I  was  so  free  —  free 
from  the  heavy  burden  —  and  all  in  a  kind  of  light  that 
was  only  the  same  gladness  in  my  heart. 

"I  stopped  there  and  waited  and  thought  how  you  said 
that  time,  *It's  good  just  to  be  alive,'  and  I  thought  if 
you  were  there  with  me  and  should  put  your  hand  on  my 
bridle  as  you  did  that  night  in  the  rain,  and  if  you  should 
lead  me  away  off  —  even  into  the  *  Valley  of  the  shadow  of 
death'  into  those  deep  shadows  below  us  I  would  go  and 
never  say  a  word.     All  at  once  it  seemed  as  if  you  were 


Cassandra's  Confession  185 

doing  that,  and  I  forgot  Frale  and  kept  on  and  on;  and 
wherever  it  seemed  like  you  were  leading  me,  I  went. 

'*It  seemed  like  I  was  dreaming,  or  feeling  like  a  hand 
was  on  my  heart  —  a  hand  I  could  not  see,  pulling  me  and 
making  me  feel,  'This  way,  this  way,  I  must  go  this  way.' 
I  never  had  been  where  my  horse  took  me  before.  I 
didn't  think  how  I  ever  could  get  back  again.  I  didn't 
seem  to  see  anything  around  me  —  only  to  go  on  —  on  — 
on,  and  at  last  it  seemed  I  couldn't  go  fast  enough,  until 
all  at  once  I  came  to  your  horse  tied  there,  and  I  heard 
strange  trampling  sounds  a  little  farther  on  where  my  horse 
could  not  go  —  and  I  got  off  and  ran. 

"I  fell  doT\Ti  and  got  up  and  ran  again ;  and  it  seemed  as 
if  my  feet  wouldn't  leave  the  ground,  but  only  held  me  back. 
It  seemed  like  they  hadn't  any  more  power  to  run  —  and  — 
then  I  came  there  and  I  saw."  She  paused,  covering  her 
face  ^4th  her  hand  as  if  to  shut  out  the  sight,  and  slipped 
to  her  knees  beside  him.  "Oh,  I  saw  your  faces  —  all 
terrible  — "  He  put  his  arm  about  her  and  drew  her  close. 
*'I  saw  you  fall,  and  your  face  when  it  seemed  like  you 
were  dying  as  you  fought.  I  saw — "  Her  sobs  shook 
her,  and  she  could  not  go  on. 

"My  beautiful  priestess  of  good  and  holy  things  !'*  he 
said. 

She  leaned  to  him  then  and,  placing  her  arms  about  him, 
ever  mindful  of  his  hurt,  she  lifted  his  head  to  her  shoulder. 
The  flood-gates  of  her  reserve  once  lifted,  the  full  tide  of 
her  intense  nature  swept  over  him  and  enveloped  him.  It 
was  as  light  to  his  soul  and  healing  to  his  body.  How  often 
it  had  seemed  as  if  he  saw  her  with  that  halo  of  light  about 
her,  and  now  it  was  as  if  he  had  been  drawn  within  its 
charmed  radius,  as  surely  he  had. 

"And  then,  dear  heart,  what  did  you  do  ?" 

"  I  thought  you  were  killed,  and  almost  —  almost  I 
cursed  him.  I  hope  now  I  wasn't  so  wicked.  But  I  —  I 
—  called  back  from  God  the  promise  I  had  given  him." 

"And  then  —  tell  me  all  the  blessed  truth  —  and 
then—" 

"You  were  bleeding  —  bleeding  —  and  I  took  off  your 
clothes  —  and  I  saw  where  vou  were  bleeding  vour  life 
away,  and  I  tied  my  dress  around  you.  I  tore  it  in  pieces 
and  wound  it  all  around  you  as  well  as  I  could,  and  then  I 


186  The  Mountain  Girl 

put  your  coat  back  on  you,  and  still  you  didn't  waken.  It 
seemed  as  if  you  had  stopped  breathing.  And  then  I 
saw  the  bruise  on  your  head,  and  I  thought  maybe  you 
were  only  stunned.  I  brought  water  from  the  branch  and 
put  your  head  on  the  wet  cloth  and  bound  it  all  around, 
but  still  you  looked  like  he  had  killed  you,  and  then — " 
he  stirred  in  her  arms  to  feel  their  clasp. 

"And  then  — then— " 

"I  went  for  help,"  she  said,  in  so  Iowa  tone  it  seemed 
hardly  spoken. 

"First  you  did  something  you  have  not  told  me." 

She  waited  in  a  sweet  shame  he  recognized  and  gloried 
in,  but  he  wanted  the  confession  from  her  lips. 

"And  then .?»" 

"You  said  you  would  teach  me  to  say  things  without 
words,"  she  said  tremulously. 

"Not  now.  Later.  Put  everything  you  did  in  words. 
And  then—" 

"I  thought  you  were  dying."  She  drew  in  a  long, 
sighing  breath. 

"And  you  kissed  me.  I  have  a  right  to  know,  for  I 
missed  them  all — " 

"I  did,  I  did,"  she  cried  vehemently.  "A  hundred 
times  I  kissed  you.  I  had  called  my  promise  back  from 
God  —  and  I  dared  it.  I  wasn't  ashamed.  I  would  have 
done  it  if  all  the  mountain  side  had  been  there  to  see  — 
but  afterwards  —  when  that  strange  doctor  from  Faring- 
ton  came,  and  I  knew  he  must  uncover  you  and  find  my 
torn  dress  around  you  —  somehow,  then  I  felt  I  didn't 
want  for  him  to  look  at  me,  and  I  was  glad  to  go  away." 

"Do  you  want  to  know  what  he  said  when  he  saw  it? 
*  Whoever  did  this  kept  you  alive,  young  man.'  So  you 
see  how  you  are  my  beautiful  bringer  of  good.  You  are 
—  Oh,  I  have  only  one  arm  now.  I  am  at  a  disadvantage. 
When  I  can  stand  on  my  feet,  I  will  pay  them  all  back  — 
those  kisses  you  threw  away  on  me  then.  We  shan't 
need  w^ords  then,  dearest.  I'll  teach  you  the  sweet  lesson. 
Your  arms  tremble;  they  are  tired,  dear.  Could  you 
let  your  head  rest  here  and  sleep  as  you  did  the  other  day  ? 
To  think  how  I  woke  and  found  you  beside  me  sleeping  — " 

"Let  me  go  now.     I  have  things  I  ought  to  do  for  you." 

"Not  yet.     I  have  things  I  must  say  to  you." 


Cassandra's  Confession  187 


«- 


Please,  Doctor  Thryng." 

"My  name  is  David.     You  must  call  me  by  it." 

"Please,  Doctor  David,  let  me  go." 

"Why?" 

"To  warm  some  milk.     I  brought  it  up  for  you." 

"Pity  we  must  eat  to  live.  Then  if  I  let  you  take  your 
arms  away,  will  you  come  back  to  me?" 

"Yes.     I'll  bring  the  milk." 

"There,  go.  I'm  giving  you  your  own  way  because  I 
know  I  will  recover  the  sooner  the  strength  I  have  lost. 
A  man  flat  on  his  back,  with  but  one  arm  free,  is  no  good." 

"But  you  don't  let  me  go." 

"Listen,  Cassandra.  You  brought  me  back  to  life. 
Do  you  know  what  for  ?  What  did  your  father  tell  you  ? 
That  one  should  be  sent  for  you  ?  It  is  I,  dearest.  From 
away  over  on  the  other  side  of  the  earth,  I  have  come  for 
you.  We  fought  like  beasts  —  Frale  and  I.  I  had  given 
you  up  —  you  —  Cassandra;  had  said  in  *my  heart,  *I 
will  go  away  and  leave  her  to  the  one  she  has  chosen,  if 
that  be  right,'  and  even  at  that  moment,  Frale  shot  me 
and  sprang  upon  me,  and  I  fought.  I  was  glad  the  chance 
was  given  me  there  in  the  wilderness  in  that  old  and  primi- 
tive way,  to  settle  it  and  win  you. 

"I  put  all  the  force  and  strength  of  my  body  into  it, 
and  more  ;  all  the  strength  of  my  love  for  you.  It  was  with 
that  in  my  heart,  we  clinched.  I  said  I  will  fight  to  the 
death  for  her.  She  shall  be  mine  whether  I  live  or  die. 
Stop  crying,  sweet;  be  glad  as  I  am.  Give  thanks  that 
it  was  to  the  life  and  not  to  the  death.  Listen,  once  more, 
while  I  can  feel  and  know;  give  way  to  your  great  heart  of 
love  and  treat  me  as  you  did  after  you  had  bound  up  my 
wounds.     Learn  the  sweet  lesson  I  said  I  would  teach 

you." 

Late  that  evening,  Hoke  Belew  rode  up  to  the  door  of 
David's  cabin  and  called  Aunt  Sally  out  to  speak  with  him. 

"How's  doc?" 

"He's  doin'  right  well.  He's  asleep  now.  Won't  ye 
'light  an'  come  in?" 

"I  reckon  not.  Azalie,  she's  been  alone  all  day,  an'  I 
guess  she'll  be  some  'feared.  Will  you  put  that  thar  under 
doc's  pillow  whar  he  kin  find  hit  in  the  mawnin'  ?     Hit's 


188  The  Mountain  Girl 

a  papah  he  sont  me  fer.  Tell  'im  I  reckon  hit's  all  straight. 
He  kin  see.  Them  people  Cassandry  was  expectin'  from 
Farington,  did  they  come  to-day  ?" 

*'Yas,  they  come.     They're  down  to  Miz  Farwell's." 

"Well,  you  tell  doc  'at  Azalie  an'  me,  we'll  be  here  'long 
'leven  in  the  mawnin'."  Hoke  rode  off  under  the  winking 
stars,  for  the  clouds  after  the  long  day  of  rain  had  lifted, 
and  in  the  still  night  were  rolling  away  over  the  moun- 
tain tops. 

Aunt  Sally  slipped  quietly  back  into  the  cabin  and  softly 
closed  the  door  of  the  canvas  room,  lest  the  rustling  of 
paper  should  waken  her  charge,  for  she  meant  to  examine 
that  paper,  quite  innocently,  since  she  could  neither  read 
nor  write,  but  out  of  sheer  childish  curiosity. 

She  need  not  have  feared  waking  David,  however,  for, 
all  his  physical  discomfort  forgotten,  dominated  by  the 
supreme  happiness  that  possessed  him,  yet  weak  in  body 
to  the  point  of  exhaustion,  he  slept  profoundly  and  calmly 
on,  even  when  she  came  stealthily  and  slipped  the  paper 
beneath  his  pillow,  as  Hoke  had  requested. 


CHAPTER  XX 

IN  WHICH   THE  BISHOP  AND   HIS   WIFE   PASS  AN   EVENTFUL 

DAY   AT   THE   FALL   PLACE 

*'Do  you  know,  James,"  said  Betty  Towers,  as  she 
walked  at  her  husband's  side  in  the  sweet  morning,  slowly 
climbing  up  to  David's  cabin  from  the  Fall  Place,  *'I 
feel  almost  vexed  with  you  for  never  bringing  me  here 
before." 

*'  Why  —  my  dear  ! " 

**Yes,  I  do.  To  think  of  all  this  loveliness,  and  for 
six  years  you  have  been  here  many  times,  and  never  once 
told  me  you  knew  a  place  hardly  two  hours  away  as  en- 
trancing as  heaven.  Even  now,  James,  if  it  hadn't  been 
for  Cassandra,  I  wouldn't  have  come.  Why  —  it's  the 
loveliest  spot  on  earth.  Stand  still  a  minute,  James, 
and  listen.  That's  a  thrush.  Oh,  something  smells  so 
sweet !  It's  a  locust !  And  that's  a  redbird's  note. 
There  he  is,  like  a  red  blossom  in  those  bushes.  There  — 
no,  there.  You  will  look  in  the  wrong  direction,  James, 
and  now  he's  gone.  You  remember  what  David  Thryng 
wrote?  *It's  good  just  to  be  alive.'  He's  always  say- 
ing that,  and  now  I  understand  —  in  such  a  place  as  this. 
Oh,  just  breathe  the  air,  James!" 

"I  certainly  can't  help  doing  that,  dear."  The  bishop 
was  puffing  a  little  over  the  climb  his  slight  young  wife 
took  so  easily. 

"I  don't  care.     Here  I've  lived  in  cities  all  my  life, 

while  you  have  lived  down  here,  and  it  has  lost  its  charm 

to  you.     Only  think  of  all  this  gorgeous  display  of  nature 

just  for  these  mountain  people,  and  what  is  it  to  them  ?  " 

-  "To  them  it's  the  natural  order  of  things,  just  as  you 

^       implied  in  regard  to  me." 

"Hark,  James.     Now,  that's  a  catbird!" 

"And  not  a  thrush  ?" 

"The  other  was  a  thrush.     I  know  the  difference." 

"Wise  little  woman  !     Come.     There's  that  young  man 

189 


190  The  Mountain  Girl 

getting  up  a  fever  by  fretting.  We  said  —  I  said  we 
would  come  early." 

"James,  I'm  going  to  stay  up  here  and  let  you  go  to  that 
stupid  wedding  down  in  Farington  without  me." 

"Perhaps  we  may  have  something  interesting  up  here, 
if  you'll  hurry  a  little." 

"What  is  it,  James  ?" 

"I  really  can't  say,  dear."  She  took  his  hand,  and  they 
walked  on. 

"Wouldn't  this  be  an  ideal  spot  to  spend  a  honeymoon  ? 
Hear  that  fall  away  down  below  us.  How  cool  it  sounds  ! 
Why  don't  you  pay  attention  to  me  ?  What  are  you 
thinking  about,  James  ?  " 

"I  am  making  a  little  poem  for  you,  dear.     Listen :  — 

"  Chatter,  chatter,  little  tongue. 
What  a  wonder  how  you're  hung  ! 
Up  above  the  epiglottis, 
Tied  on  with  a  little  knot  'tis.'* 

"Only  geniuses  may  be  silly,  James,  but  perhaps  you 
can't  help  it.  I  think  married  people  ought  to  establish 
the  custom  of  sabbatical  honeymoons  to  counteract  the 
divorce  habit.  Suppose  we  set  the  example,  now  we  have 
arrived  at  just  the  right  time  for  one,  and  spend  ours  here." 

"Anything  you  say,  dear." 

Being  an  absent-minded  man,  the  bishop  had  fallen 
in  the  way  of  saying  that,  when,  had  he  paused  to  think, 
he  would  have  admitted  that  everything  was  made  to 
bend  to  his  will  or  wish  by  the  spirited  little  being  at  his 
side.  Moreover,  being  an  absent-minded  man,  he  drew 
her  to  him  and  kissed  her.  Aunt  Sally,  watching  them 
from  the  cabin  door,  wondered  if  the  bishop  were  going 
away  on  a  journey,  to  leave  his  wife  behind,  for  why  else 
should  he  kiss  her  thus  ? 

"Will  you  sit  there  on  the  rock  and  enjoy  the  mountains 
while  I  see  how  he  is.^"  said  the  bishop. 

So  they  parted  at  the  door,  and  Aunt  Sally  brought  her 
a  chair  and  stood  beside  her,  giving  her  every  detail  of  the 
affair  as  far  as  she  knew  it.  She  sat  bareheaded  in  the 
sun,  to  Sally's  amazement,  for  she  had  her  hat  in  her  lap 
and  could  have  worn  it. 


An  Eventful  Day  191 

The  wind  blew  wisps  of  her  fine  straight  hair  across  her 
pink  cheeks  and  in  her  eyes,  as  she  gazed  out  upon  the 
blue  mountains  and  Ustened  to  Sally's  tale  of  "How  hit 
all  come  about."  For  Sally  went  back  into  the  family 
history  of  the  Teasleys,  and  the  Caswells,  and  the  Merlins, 
and  the  Farwells,  until  Betty  forgot  the  flight  of  time 
and  the  bishop  called  her.     Then  she  went  in  to  see  David. 

He  had  worked  his  right  hand  free  from  its  bandages 
and  was  able  to  lift  it  a  little.  She  took  it  in  hers,  and 
looked  brightly  down  at  him. 

"\\Tiy,  Doctor  Thryng,  you  look  better  than  when  you 
were  in  Farington !  Doesn't  he,  James  ?  Aunt  Sally 
gave  me  to  understand  you  were  nearly  dead." 

David  laughed  happily.  "I  was,  but  I  am  very  much 
alive  now.  I  am  to  be  married,  Mrs.  Towers ;  our  wed- 
ding is  to  be  quite  comme  il  faut.  It  is  to  be  at  high 
noon,  and  the  ceremony  performed  by  a  bishop." 

"James!"  Betty  dropped  into  a  chair  and  looked 
helplessly  at  her  husband.  "You  haven't  your  vest- 
ments here  ! " 

"I  have  all  I  need,  dear.  You  know.  Doctor,  from 
Mr.  Belew's  telegram  we  were  led  to  expect — " 

"A  death  instead  of  a  wedding.''"  David  finished. 

Betty  turned  to  him.  "Why  didn't  you  tell  us  when 
you  were  down  ?  You  never  gave  the  slightest  hint  of 
your  state  of  mind,  and  there  I  was  with  my  heart  aching 
for  Cassandra,  when  you  —  you  stood  ready  to  save  her. 
I'm  so  glad  for  Cassandra ;  I  could  hug  you.  Doctor 
Thryng."  Suddenly  she  turned  on  her  husband.  "James  ! 
Have  you  thought  of  everything  —  all  the  consequences  ? 
What  will  his  mother  —  and  the  family  over  in  England 
say.?>" 

James  threw  up  his  hand  and  laughed. 

"Don't  laugh,  James.  Have  you  thought  this  all  out, 
Doctor  ?  Are  you  sure  you  can  make  them  understand 
over  there  ?  Won't  they  think  this  awfully  irregular  ? 
Will  they  ever  be  reconciled  ?  I  know  how  they  are. 
My  father  was  English." 

"They  never  need  be  reconciled.  It's  our  affair,  and 
there's  nothing  to  call  me  back  there  to  live.  What  I  do, 
or  whom  I  make  my  wife,  is  nothing  to  them.  I  may 
visit  my  mother,  of  course,  but  for  the  rest,  they  gave  me 


192  The  Mountain  Girl 

up  years  ago,  when  I  had  no  use  for  the  life  they  mapped 
out  for  me.  I  have  nothing  to  inherit  there.  It  would 
go  to  my  older  brother,  anyway.  I  may  follow  my  own 
inclination  —  thank  God  !  And  as  for  it's  being  irregu- 
lar —  on  the  contrary  —  we  are  distinguished  enough  to 
have  a  bishop  perform  the  ceremony.  That  will  be  con- 
sidered a  great  thing  at  home  —  when  they  do  come  to 
hear  of  it." 

*'But  it  is  very  sudden.  Doctor;  I  suppose  that's  why 
I  said  irregular."  Betty  Towers  paused  a  moment  with 
a  little  frown,  then  laughed  outright.  "Does  Cassandra 
know  she  is  to  be  married  to-day  ^  " 

"She  learned  the  fact  yesterday —  incidentally  —  bless 
her  !  and  her  only  objection  was  a  most  feminine  one. 
She  had  no  propgr  dress.  She  said  she  was  wearing  her 
best  when  she  found  me  and  —  but  —  I  told  her  the 
trousseau  was  to  come  later." 

Betty  rose  with  impulsive  importance.  "Well,  James, 
we've  so  little  time,  I  must  go  and  help  her  prepare. 
And  you'll  rest  now,  won't  you.  Doctor  ?  You  stay  up 
here  with  him,  James,  and  I'll  find  some  way  of  sending 
your  things  up." 

"Thar's  Hoyle;  he  kin  he'p  a  heap.  He  kin  ride  the 
mule  an'  tote  anything  ye  like ;  and  Slarthy,  I  reckon  ye 
kin  git  her  up  here  on  my  horse  —  hit's  thar  at  her  place," 
said  Sally,  who  had  been  standing  in  the  doorway,  keenly 
interested. 

When  they  were  alone  she  said  to  David:  "Hit's  a 
right  quare  way  o'  doin'  things  —  gitt'n  married  in  bed, 
but  if  Bishop  Towahs  do  hit,  hit  sure  must  be  all  right  — 
leastways  Cassandry'll  think  so." 

David  took  the  superintendence  of  the  arrangement 
of  his  cabin  upon  himself,  and  Hoke  Belew,  with  the 
bishop's  aid,  carried  out  his  directions.  One  side  of  his 
canvas  room  was  rolled  to  the  top,  leaving  the  place  open 
to  the  hills  and  the  beauty  without.  His  bed  was  placed 
so  that  he  might  face  the  open  space,  and  that  Cassandra 
could  kneel  at  his  right  side.  His  writing-table,  draped 
with  a  white  cloth  and  covered  with  green  hemlock  boughs, 
formed  the  altar.  It  was  all  very  quickly  and  simply 
done,  and  then  David  lay  quiet,  with  closed  eyes,  listening 
to  his  musicians  in  the  tree-tops,  fluting  their  own  glad- 


An  Eventful  Day  193 

ness,  while  Hoke  Belew  went  down  below,  and  the  bishop 
sat  out  on  the  rock  and  meditated. 

Cassandra  came  up  to  the  cabin  alone  and  sat  with 
David,  while  the  bishop  donned  his  priestly  vestments, 
and  the  wedding  procession  wound  slowly  up  the  trail 
from  the  Fall  Place,  decorously  and  gravely,  clad  in  their 
best.  Azalea  and  Betty  came,  side  by  side,  the  mother  rode 
Sally's  speckled  white  horse,  and  little  Hoyle  ran  on 
ahead;  Hoke  carried  his  baby  in  his  arms.  Behind  them 
all  rode  Uncle  Jerry  Carew,  full  of  the  liveliest  interest 
and  curiosity. 

Said  David:  "This  is  May-day.  I  know  what  they're 
doing  at  home  now,  if  the  weather  will  let  them.  They're 
having  gay  times  with  out-of-door  fetes.  The  country 
girls  are  wearing  their  prettiest  gowns,  and  the  men  are 
wearing  sprigs  of  May  in  their  buttonholes.  Where  did 
you  get  your  roses  ?  " 

"Azalie  brought  them." 

*'And  who  put  them  in  your  hair.'*" 

"Mrs.  Towahs  did  that.     Do  vou  like  me  this  way, 

"You  are  the  loveliest  being  my  ej^es  ever  rested  on." 

"This  was  my  best  dress  last  year.  I  did  it  up  and 
mended  it  this  morning.  It's  home-woven  like  the  one  I 
—  like  the  other  one  you  said  you  liked." 

David  smiled,  looking  up  into  the  gray  eyes  with  the 
green  lights  and  blue  depths  in  them.  How  serene  and 
poised  her  manner  was,  on  the  verge  of  the  momentous 
step  she  was  about  to  take,  while  his  own  heart  was  beat- 
ing high.  He  wondered  if  she  really  comprehended  the 
change  it  was  to  make  in  her  life,  that  she  showed  no  appre- 
hension or  fear. 

"Cassandra,  do  you  realize  that  in  fifteen  minutes  you 
will  be  my  wife  ?  It  will  be  a  great  change  for  you,  dearest. 
In  spite  of  all  I  can  do,  you  may  be  sad  sometimes,  and  I 
may  ask  of  you  things  you  don't  want  to  do." 

"I've  been  sad  already  in  my  life,  and  done  things  I 
didn't  want  to  do.  I  don't  guess  you  could  change  that  — 
only  God  could." 

"  And  you  don't  feel  in  the  least  disturbed  .^  Your 
heart  doesn't  beat  any  harder  nor  your  breath  come 
quicker?     Tell  me  how  you  feel." 


194  The  Mountain  Girl 

She  smiled  and  drew  a  long  breath.  **I  don't  know  how 
it  is.  Everything  is  right  peaceful  and  sweet  outside  — 
the  sky  and  the  hills  and  all  the  birds  —  even  the  wind  is 
still  in  the  trees,  like  everything  was  waiting  for  some- 
thing good  to  happen." 

"In  your  heart  it  is  sweet  and  peaceful,  too,  and  waiting 
for  something  good  to  happen  ?" 

"Yes,  David." 

"God  forgive  me  if  ever  I  fail  you,"  he  said,  drawing  her 
down  to  him.     "God  make  me  worthy  of  you." 

Then  the  bishop  entered,  and  the  little  procession  fol- 
lowed, and  gathered  about  while  the  solemn  words  of  the 
service  were  uttered.  Cassandra  knelt  at  David's  side, 
as  together  they  partook  of  the  bread  and  wine,  and  with 
the  worn  circlet  of  gold  which  had  been  tied  to  her  father's 
little  Greek  books,  they  were  pronounced  man  and  wife. 
Then,  rising  from  her  knees,  she  bent  and  kissed  David, 
the  long  first  kiss  of  the  wedded  pair,  and  turned  her 
gravely  happy  face  to  the  bishop,  who  admitted  to  Betty 
afterward  that  he  had  never  kissed  a  bride,  other  than  his 
own,  with  such  unalloyed  satisfaction. 

It  was  all  over  quickly,  and  Cassandra  was  standing  in 
a  new  world.  Her  eyes  shone  w^ith  the  love-light  no 
longer  held  back  and  veiled.  She  accompanied  them  all 
to  the  door  and  parted  from  them,  even  her  mother  and 
little  Hoyle,  as  a  hostess  parting  from  her  guests.  She 
would  not  allow  any  one  to  stay  behind,  for  the  wedding 
feast  had  been  spread  in  her  mother's  house,  and  thither 
they  repaired  to  eat,  and  talk  everything  over. 

"Mother  felt  right  bad  to  leave  us  alone.  She  meant 
to  bring  everything  up  and  all  eat  together  here,  but  I 
thought  it  would  be  better,  just  we  two,  and  me  to  set 
things  out  for  you.  Lie  quiet  and  close  your  eyes,  David, 
and  make  out  like  you  are  sleeping  while  I  do  it." 

With  perfect  contentment  he  obeyed,  and  lay  w^atching 
her  through  half-closed  lids.  It  was  always  the  same 
vision.  She  moved  between  him  and  a  halo  of  light  that 
seemed  to  be  a  part  of  her  and  to  go  with  her,, now  at  his 
bedside,  now  bending  before  the  fireplace.  At  last  the 
small  pine  table,  which  had  served  as  an  altar,  was  set 
with  their  first  meal.     The  home  A^as  established. 

He  opened  his  eyes  and  looked  on  the  feast  she  had  set 


An  Eventful  Day  195 

before  him.  The  pink  rose  was  still  in  her  hair,  and  one 
at  her  throat,  and  two  perfect  ones  were  in  a  glass  near  his 
plate.  The  table  was  drawn  close  to  his  bedside,  and 
strawberries  w'ere  upon  it,  and  a  glass  pitcher  of  cream. 
There  were  white  beaten  biscuit,  and  tea  —  as  he  had 
made  it  for  her  so  long  ago  on  her  first  and  only  visit 
to  his  cabin  when  he  was  at  home,  so  she  had  made  it 
for  him  now.  There  were  chicken  and  green  peas, 
also. 

"How  quickly  everything  has  happened  !  How  perfect 
it  all  is  !     How  did  you  get  all  these  things  together  V 

So  she  told  him  where  everything  came  from.  "Mother 
churned  the  butter  to  have  it  right  fresh,  and  she  left  it 
without  salt  for  you,  like  you  said  you  used  to  have  it  in 
England.  Uncle  Jerry  brought  the  peas  from  his  garden, 
and  he  shelled  them  himself.  I  made  the  biscuit  this 
morning,  and  Aunt  Sally  fried  the  chicken  when  she  came 
down,  and  Azalie  prepared  the  peas,  and  we  kept  them  all 
hot  in  the  fireplace,  theirs  down  there,  and  ours  up  here." 
Cassandra  laughed  merrily.  "I  reckon  it  looked  funny. 
Every  one  carried  something  when  they  came  up.  Hoyle 
had  the  peas  in  a  tin  pail,  and  mother  rode  Aunt  Sally's 
Speckle  and  carried  the  biscuit  in  a  pan  on  front.  Shut 
your  eyes  and  you  can  see  them  come  that  waj%  David, 
while  I  sit  here  with  you,  talking  and  feeling  that  happy. 
Don't  try  to  use  your  right  hand  that  way ;  I  can  see  it 
hurts  you.  Let  me  go  on  feeding  you  like  I  am.  Don't 
I  do  it  right .? " 

"Perfectly,  but  I  want  you  to  bring  that  cushion  over 
here  and  put  it  under  my  pillow  so  you  won't  have  to  lift 
my  head.  That's  right.  Now  I  want  to  see  you  eat. 
You  can't  feed  me  and  yourself  at  the  same  time.  You 
won't  ?     Then  we'll  take  it  turn  about." 

"How  have  you  managed  these  daj^s  ?  Did  Aunt  Sally 
feed  you  ?  Oh,  I  don't  believe  you  ate  anything.  You 
couldn't,  could  you  .^" 

She  spoke  so  sadly,  he  laughed.  "It's  a  lucky  thing 
you  sent  for  the  bishop  instead  of  the  doctor,  or  I  would 
have  had  no  wife  and  would  have  starved  to  death.  I 
couldn't  have  survived  another  dav." 

Again  she  laughed  out,  as  she  seemed  so  suddenly  to  have 
learned  to  do.     "And  I  would  have  stayed  away  and  let 


196  The  Mountain  Girl 

you  starve  to  death  ?  You  must  open  your  mouth,  David, 
and  not  try  to  talk  now." 

"Ah,  no,  that's  enough.  WeVe  a  thousand  things  to 
say  and  plans  to  make.  You  eat  while  I  talk.  When  I 
am  up,  we  must  find  some  one  to  stay  with  your  mother. 
She  should  not  be  left  alone."  Cassandra  paled  a  little. 
He  was  watching  her  face.  "You  will  be  staying  up  here 
with  me,  you  know,  all  the  time." 

"Yes  —  I  know."  Her  throat  seemed  to  tighten,  and 
she  looked  off  toward  the  hills,  as  her  way  was. 

"Don't  you  like  the  thought  of  staying  up  here  with  me  ? 
Make  your  confession,  dearest  one."  He  drew  her  down 
to  look  in  his  eyes.     "It's  done.     We  are  man  and  wife." 

Her  eyes  swam  with  tears,  but  her  lips  smiled.  "I  do. 
I  do  want  to  bide  with  you.  All  the  way  before  me  now 
looks  like  a  long  path  of  light  —  like  what  I  have  dreamed 
sometimes  when  the  moon  shines  long  down  the  mists  at 
night.  Only  one  place  —  I  can't  quite  see  —  is  it  shadow 
or  not.  Perhaps  it's  only  the  thought  of  mother  down 
there  alone." 

She  spoke  dreamily  and  with  the  same  look  of  seeing 
things  beyond,  except  that  now  she  fixed  her  eyes,  not  on 
the  mountain  top,  but  on  his  own. 

"Is  it  in  my  eyes  you  see  the  long  path  of  light  ?  Are 
we  together  in  it  ?  I  see  you  always  with  the  light  about 
you.  I  saw  you  so  first  in  your  own  home  before  the  blaz- 
ing fire  —  such  a  hearth  fire  as  I  had  never  seen  before. 
You  have  appeared  to  me  in  my  dreams  with  light  about 
you  ever  since,  and  in  my  visions  when  I  have  been  riding 
over  these  hills  alone.     What  are  you  seeing  now  ?  " 

"You,  as  you  helped  me  that  first  time,  there  in  the 
snow.  You  looked  so  ill,  but  your  way  was  strong,  and  I 
thought  —  all  at  once,  in  a  flash  —  like  it  came  from  — " 

"Goon." 

"Like  it  came  from  my  father:  *One  will  come  for 
you.'  "  She  hid  her  face  in  his  bosom,  and  her  words  came 
smothered  and  brokenly,  "All  the  ride  home  I  put  them 
away,  but  they  would  come  back,  his  words:  *0n  the 
mountain  top,  one  will  come  for  you ' ;  but  we  were  in  such 
trouble  —  I  thought  it  was  just  the  thought  of  my  father. 
It's  always  strongest  when  trouble  comes,  like  he  would 
comfort  me." 


An  Eventful  Day  197 

*' Don't  you  have  it  also  when  happiness  comes  to  you, 
as  on  this  morning  while  we  waited  together  ?'* 

**No  great  happiness  Hke  this  ever  came  before.  I  have 
been  glad,  like  when  mother  said  I  might  go  to  Farington 
to  school ;  and  when  I  knelt  and  was  confirmed,  I  was 
glad  then.  The  first  gladness  I  can  remember  was  when 
my  father  used  to  carry  me  in  his  arms  up  and  down  his 
path  and  repeat  strange  poetry  to  me.  When  you  are 
well,  we  will  go  there,  won't  we.'^" 

"Yes,  dearest ;  but  didn't  the  remembrance  come  to  you 
just  now,  when  you  saw  the  long  path  of  light  before  us  .f^" 

"I  think  no,  David.  I'm  afraid  I  forgot  every  one  but 
you  then,  when  you  asked  would  I  like  to  bide  here  with 
you ;  and  the  long  path  of  light  was  our  love  —  for  it 
reaches  up  to  heaven,  doesn't  it,  David  ?  " 

'*It  reaches  to  heaven,  Cassandra." 

Then  they  were  silent,  for  there  was  no  more  to  say. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

IN   WHICH   THE   SUMMER   PASSES 

MiDSUAOiER  arrived,  and  David,  healed  of  his  wounds, 
pronounced  himself  as  "strong  as  a  cricketer."  What 
he  meant  by  that  Hoyle  could  only  conjecture,  and,  after 
much  pondering,  decided  that  his  strength  was  now  so 
great  that  should  he  desire  to  do  so,  he  could  leap  into  the 
air  or  jump  long  distances  after  the  manner  of  crickets. 

"You  reckon  you  could  jump  as  fer  in  one  jump  now 
as  from  here  to  t'other  side  the  water  trough  yandah  ?  " 
he  asked  one  day,  as  they  sat  on  the  porch  steps  together. 

"No,  I  don't  reckon  so,"  said  David,  laughing. 

"Well,  could  you  jump  ovah  this  here  house  and  the 
loom  shed  in  one  jump  ?*^ 

"I  don't  reckon  so." 

"Be  sensible,  honey  son.  You  mustn't  'low  him  to 
ax  ye  fool  questions,  Doctah.  You  knows  they  hain't 
nobody  kin  do  such  as  that,  Hoyle,"  called  his  mother  from 
within. 

"He  has  some  idea  in  his  head.  What  is  it,  brother 
Hoyle.?" 

"I  heered  you  tellin'  Cass  'at  you  was  gettin'  strong  as 
one  o'  these  here  cricket  bugs,  an'  I  had  one  t'other  day ; 
he  could  jump  as  fer  as  cl'ar  acrost  the  po'ch  —  and  he 
was  only  'bout  a  inch  long  —  er  less  'n  a  inch.  I  thought 
if  brothah  David  was  that  strong,  he  could  jump  a  heap." 

David  had  comforted  Hoyle  for  the  loss  of  Cassandra 
from  the  home  by  explaining  that  they  were  now  become 
brothers  for  the  rest  of  their  lives,  and  in  order  to  give 
this  assurance  appreciable  significance,  he  had  taken  the 
small  chap  to  the  circus  and  had  treated  him  to  pink 
lemonade  and  a  toy  balloon. 

They  had  remained  over  until  the  next  day,  and  Doctor 
Bartlett  and  David  had  examined  him  all  over  at  the  old 
physician's  office  and  then  had  gone  into  a  little  room 
by  themselves  and  stayed  a  long  time,  leaving  him  outside. 

198 


The  Summer  Passes  199 

Then,  to  compensate  for  such  gross  neglect,  David  had 
taken  him  to  a  clothing  store  and  bought  him  a  complete 
suit  of  store  clothing,  very  neat  and  pretty.  Hoyle  would 
have  been  in  the  seventh  heaven  over  all  this,  were  it  not, 
alas  !  that  there  the  child  for  the  first  time  in  his  life 
looked  into  a  mirror  that  revealed  him  to  himself  from  head 
to  foot,  little  wry  neck,  hunched  back  and  all. 

David,  not  realizing  this  was  a  revelation  to  the  little 
man,  wondered,  as  they  walked  away,  that  all  his  enthu- 
siasm and  exuberance  of  spirits  had  left  him,  and  that  he 
walked  at  his  side  wearily  and  sadly  silent.  His  pathetic 
little  legs  spindled  down  from  the  smart  new  trousers, 
and  his  hands  dangled  weakly  from  his  thin  wrists,  albeit 
his  fingers  clung  tightly  to  his  toy  balloon. 

"We're  going  back  to  the  bishop's  now,  and  we'll  have 
a  good  dinner,  and  then  you'll  have  a  whole  hour  to 
play  with  Dorothy  before  we  leave  for  home,"  said  David, 
cheeringly.  The  child  made  no  response  other  than  to  slip 
his  hand  into  David's.  "What  are  you  thinking  about, 
brother  Hoyle .? " 

"Jest  nothin'.     I  war  a-wonderin'." 

"Oh,  there  is  a  difference  .^  W'hat  were  you  wonder- 
mg? 

"Maw  told  me  if  you  war  that  good  to  take  me  to  a 
circus,  I  mustn't  bothah  you  with  a  heap  o'  questions  'at 
wa'n't  no  good." 

"That's  all  right.     I'm  questioning  you  now." 

"What  war  you  an'  that  old  man  feelin'  me  all  ovah  for  ? 
War  you  tryin'  to  make  out  hu'  come  my  hade  is  sot  like 
this-a-way  .^  Reckon  you  r'aly  could  set  hit  straight  an' 
get  this  'er  lump  off'n  my  back  V 

"Don't  worry  about  your  head  and  your  back.  You 
have  a  very  good  head.    That's  more  than  some  can  say.'* 

"I  nevah  see  nary  othah  boy  like  I  be.  You  reckon 
that  li'l'  girl,  she  thought  I  war  quare  "^  " 

|]  What  little  girl  .^';^ 

"Mrs.  Towahs's  liT  girl.  She  said  'turn  roun', '  an' 
when  I  done  hit,  she  said  '  turn  roun'  agin.'  Then  she  said, 
'Whyn't  you  hoi'  your  hade  like  I  do  ?'" 

"What  did  you  say  ?" 

"Didn't  say  nothin.'  Jes'  axed  her  whyn't  she  hoi' 
her  head  like  I  did  .^    an'  she  said,  'Don't  want  to.'     So 


200  The  Mountain  Girl 

I  said,  'Don't  want  to.'"  He  twisted  his  head  about  to 
look  up  in  David's  face,  and  his  lips  smiled,  but  in  his 
eyes  was  a  suspicion  of  tears.  His  heart  heavy  for  the 
child,  David  praised  him  for  a  brave  Httle  chap,  comforting 
him  as  best  he  could. 

"You  reckon  she'd  like  me  if  I  war  to  give  her  this  here 
balloon.?" 

"No,  you  take  that  home  to  sister.  The  little  girl 
can  get  one  when  the  circus  comes  again."  But  after 
dinner,  David  did  not  send  Hoyle  off  to  play  the  hour  with 
Dorothy.  He  took  her  on  his  knee  and  entertained  them 
both  with  tales  and  mimicry  until  he  had  them  in  gales  of 
laughter,  and  for  the  time  being  Hoyle  forgot  his  troubles. 

As  the  days  passed,  David  became  more  and  more  inter- 
ested in  his  patch  of  ground  and  the  growing  things  in  his 
garden.  Never  had  he  labored  with  his  hands  in  this 
fashion,  and  each  night  he  lay  down  to  sleep  physically 
weary,  in  contentment  of  spirit.  Steadily  he  progressed 
toward  the  desired  goal  of  health.  In  his  young  wife,  also, 
he  found  a  rich  satisfaction,  watching  her  unfold  and 
blossom  into  the  gracious  wifehood  and  ladyhood  he  had 
dreamed  of  for  her. 

Together  they  used  to  stroll  to  the  little  farm,  where 
she  told  him  all  she  knew  about  the  crops — what  was  best 
for  the  animals,  and  what  would  be  needed  for  themselves. 
Long  before  David  was  able  to  oversee  the  work  himself, 
she  had  set  Elwine  Timms  to  sowing  cow-peas  and  planting 
corn. 

"Behold  your  heritage  !"  David  said  to  her  one  morn- 
ing, as  they  strolled  thus  among  the  thrifty  greenness  and 
patches  of  vetch  where  the  cow  was  contentedly  feeding. 
He  laughed  joyously  and  drew  his  wife's  arm  through  his. 
She  looked  up  at  him  wistfully.  He  thought  she  sighed, 
and  bent  his  head  to  listen.  "What  was  that  little 
sound  ?  " 

"I  was  only  thinking." 

"We'll  sit  here  where  we  sat  that  morning  when  we  both 
put  our  hands  to  the  plough,  and  you  tell  me  what  you  were 
thinking." 

"I  ought  not  to  stop  now,  David.  I've  left  all  for 
mother  to  do.  I  was  that  busy  at  the  cabin  I  didn't  get 
down  to  her  this  morning." 


The  Summer  Passes  201 

"You  can't  keep  two  homes  going  with  only  your  own 
two  dear  hands,  Cassandra.  It  must  be  stopped.  We'll 
find  some  one  to  live  with  your  mother  and  take  your 
place."  She  gave  a  little  gasp,  then  sat  silently,  her  hands 
dropped  passively  in  her  lap,  and  he  thought  she  seemed 
sad.  He  took  her  face  between  his  hands  and  made  her 
look  into  his  eyes.  "Don't  be  worried,  sweetheart;  we'll 
make  a  few  changes.  You're  mine  now,  you  know  —  not 
only  to  serve  me  and  labor  for  me  as  you  have  been  doing 
all  these  weeks,  but — " 

"But  I  like  it,  David.  I  like  doing  for  you.  I  hope 
it  may  always  be  so  I  can  do  for  you." 

"Would  you  like  me  to  become  an  invalid  again  so  you 
could  keep  on  in  the  way  you  began  ?" 

"Not  that  —  but  sometimes  I  think  what  if  you 
shouldn't  really  need  me ! "  She  hid  her  face  on  his 
breast.  "I  —  I  want  you  to  need  me  —  David!"  It 
was  almost  like  a  cry  for  help,  as  she  said  it. 

"Dear  heart,  dear  heart !  What  are  you  thinking  and 
fearing  ?  Can't  you  understand  ?  You  are  mine  now,  to 
be  cared  for  and  loved  and  held  very  near  and  dear  to  my 
heart.     We  are  no  more  twain,  we  are  one." 

"Yes,  but  —  but  —  David,  I  —  I  want  you  to  need 
me,"  she  sobbed,  and  he  knew  some  thought  was  stirring 
in  her  heart  which  she  could  not  yet  put  into  words.  He 
comforted  her  and  soothed  her,  explaining  certain  plans 
which  later  he  put  into  execution,  so  that  her  duties  at 
the  Fall  Place  were  brought  to  an  end  and  he  could  have 
her  always  with  him. 

A  daughter  of  her  Uncle  Cotton,  who  had  gone  down 
into  South  Carolina  to  live,  was  induced  to  come  and  stay 
with  the  widow,  and  the  girl's  brother  came  with  her  and 
helped  David  on  the  farm. 

Then  David  made  changes  in  and  about  his  cabin. 
He  built  on  another  room  and  put  therein  a  cook  stove. 
He  could  not  bear  to  see  his  young  wife  bending  at  the 
hearth  preparing  their  meals,  and  when  she  demurred,  he 
explained  that  he  wished  to  keep  her  as  she  was  and  not 
see  her  growing  old  and  wrinkled  before  her  time,  with  the 
burning  heat  of  the  open  fire  in  her  face,  like  many  of  the 
mountain  women. 

One  evening,  —  they  had  eaten  their  supper  out  under 


202  The  Mountain  Girl 

the  trees,  —  she  proposed  they  should  walk  up  to  her 
father's  path,  as  she  called  the  spot  toward  which  she  so 
often  lifted  her  eyes,  and  David  was  well  pleased  to  go 
with  her.  As  they  set  out,  she  asked  him  to  wait  a  moment 
while  she  went  back  for  something,  and  quickly  returned, 
bringing  his  flute. 

"I've  often  wished  father  could  have  heard  you  play  on 
this,"  she  said,  as  he  took  it  from  her  hand. 

They  crossed  the  little  river  that  tumbled  and  rushed 
among  great  moss-covered  boulders  on  its  way  to  the  fall, 
and  followed  its  wayward  course  toward  its  head,  where 
the  w^ay  was  untrodden  and  wild,  as  if  no  human  foot  had 
ever  climbed  along  its  banks.  After  a  little  they  turned 
off  toward  a  tremendous  rock  of  solid  granite  that  had  been 
cleft  smoothly  in  twain  by  some  gigantic  force  of  nature, 
and,  walking  between  the  towering  walls  of  stone,  came 
out  on  the  farther  side  upon  a  small  level  space,  where 
immense  ferns  and  flags  grew  thickly  in  the  rich  soil,  held 
in  place  and  kept  damp  by  the  great  cool  masses  of  stone. 

Above  this  little  dell  the  hill  rose  steeply,  and  Cassandra 
led  him  to  a  narrow  opening  in  the  dense  shrubbery  sur- 
rounding the  spot  from  which  a  beaten  path  wound  up- 
ward, overarched  with  thickly  interlacing  branches  of 
birch  wood  and  hemlocks.  Along  this  winding  trail  they 
climbed,  until  they  reached  a  cluster  of  enormous  cedars 
which  made  the  dark  place  on  the  mountain  Cassandra 
had  pointed  out  to  him  from  below.  Here  the  path  wid- 
ened so  they  could  walk  side  by  side,  and  continued  along 
a  level  line  at  the  foot  of  the  dark  mass  of  trees. 

"Here  father  used  to  walk  up  and  down  reading  in  his 
little  books ;  seems  like  I  can  hear  his  voice  now.  Some- 
times he  would  look  off  over  the  valley  below  us  there 
and  repeat  parts  by  heart.  Isn't  it  beautiful  here, 
David.?" 

"Heavenly  beautiful !" 
I'm  glad  we  never  came  here  before." 
Why,  dearest?" 

Because."  She  hesitated  with  parted  lips,  and  cheeks 
flushed  from  the  climb.  David  stood  with  bared  head. 
He  felt  as  if  he  were  in  a  cathedral. 

"And  why  because  ?''  he  asked  again. 

"For  now  we  bring  just  happiness  with  us.     We're  not 


<<  T>- 


ii 


The  Summer  Passes  203 

troubled  or  wondering  about  anything.  No  sorrow  comes 
with  us.  In  our  hearts  we  are  sure  —  sure  —  '*  She 
paused  again  and  lifted  her  eyes  to  his. 

"Sure  that  all  is  right  when  we  belong  to  each  other  — 
this  way  ?  " 

"Yes,    sure!     Oh,    David,    sure  —  sure!"     She    threw 

'her  arms  about  his  neck  and  drew  his  face  down  to  hers. 

"It's  even  a  greater  happiness  than  when  he  used  to  carry 

me  in  his  arms  here.     There's  no  sorrow  near  us.     It's 

all  far  awav." 

Thus,  sometimes  she  would  throw  off  all  the  habitual 
reserve  of  her  manner  and  open  her  heart  to  him,  following 
the  rich  impulses  of  her  nature  to  their  glorious  revelation. 

"Now,  David,  sit  here  and  play ;  play  your  flute  as  you 
did  that  first  time  when  I  learned  who  made  the  music  that 
I  thought  must  be  the  'Voices,'  that  time  I  climbed  up  to 
see." 

They  sat  under  the  great  cedars  on  a  bank  of  moss,  and 
David  took  the  flute  from  her  hand,  smiling  as  he  thought 
of  that  moment  when  he  had  stood  among  the  blossoming 
laurel  and  watched  her  as  she  moved  about  his  cabin, 
the  day  before  his  hurt,  and  how  she  had  kissed  it. 

"I  used  to  sit  here  like  this."  She  bent  forward  and 
rested  her  head  on  his  knee.  She  had  a  way  of  putting  her 
two  hands  together  as  a  child  is  taught  to  hold  them  in 
prayer  and  placing  them  beneath  her  cheek;  and  so  she 
waited  while  David  paused,  his  hand  on  her  hair,  and  his 
eyes  fixed  on  the  sea  of  hilltops  where  they  melted  into 
the  sky,  —  a  mysterious,  undulating  line  of  the  faintest 
blue,  seen  through  the  arching  branches  above,  and  the 
swaying  hemlocks  on  either  side,  and  over  the  tops  of  a 
hundred  varieties  of  pines  and  deciduous  trees  beneath 
them,  all  down  the  long  slope  up  which  they  had  climbed. 

Thus  they  waited,  until  she  lifted  her  head  and  looked 
into  his  eyes  questioningly.  He  bent  forward  and  kissed 
her  lips  and  then  lifted  the  flute  to  his  own  —  but  again 
paused. 

"What  are  you  thinking  now,  David  .f^"  she  asked. 

"So  you  really  thought  it  was  the  'Voices'  '^.  What  was 
their  message,  Cassandra  ?  " 

"I  couldn't  make  it  out  then,  but  I  thought  of  this  place 
and  of  father,  and  it  was  all  at  once  like  as  if  he  would 


204  The  Mountain  Girl 

make  me  know  something,  and  I  prayed  God  would  he 
lead  me  to  understand  was  it  a  message  or  not.  So  that 
was  the  way  I  kept  on  following  —  until  I  — " 

"You  came  to  me,  dear  ?" 

"Yes.'* 

"And  what  did  you  think  the  interpretation  was  then  ?'' 

"Yes,  it  was  you  —  you,  David.  It  was  love  —  and 
hope  —  and  gladness  —  everything,  everything  — " 

"Goon." 

"Everything  good  and  beautiful  —  but  —  sometimes  it 
comes  again  — " 

"  What  comes  .?^" 

"Play,  David,  play.  I'll  tell  you  another  time  in  an- 
other place,  not  here.     No,  no." 

So  he  played  for  her  until  the  dusk  deepened  around 
and  below  them,  and  they  had  to  make  their  way  back 
stumblingly.  When  they  came  to  the  wild,  untrodden 
bank  of  the  little  river,  David  resigned  the  choosing  of  their 
path  entirely  to  her  and  followed  close,  holding  her  hand 
where  she  led.  When  at  last  they  reached  their  cabin, 
they  did  not  light  candles,  but  sat  long  in  the  doorway 
conversing  on  the  deep  things  of  their  souls. 

It  still  seemed  to  David  as  if  she  held  something  back 
from  him,  and  now  he  begged  her  for  a  more  perfect  self- 
revealing. 

"It  is  no  longer  as  if  we  were  separate,  dearest;  can't 
you  remember  and  feel  that  we  are  one  ?" 

"In  a  way  I  do.     It  is  very  sweet." 

"You  say  in  a  way.     In  what  way  ?" 

"Why,  David  ?"^ 

"I  want  your  point  of  view." 

"I  see.  We're  not  really  one  until  we  see  from  each 
other's  hilltop,  are  we  ?  " 

"No,  and  you  never  take  me  into  the  secret  places  of 
your  heart  and  let  me  look  off  from  your  own  hilltop." 

"Didn't  I  this  very  evening,  David  ?'* 

"We  stood  on  the  same  spot  of  earth  and  looked  off  on 
the  same  distance,  yet  in  my  soul  I  know  I  did  not  see  what 
you  saw." 

"Pictures  come  to  me  very  suddenly  and  just  float  by, 
hardly  understood  by  myself.  I  didn't  w^ant  you  to  see 
all  I  saw,  David.     I  don't  know  how  comes  it,  but  all  the 


The  Summer  Passes  205 

time,  even  in  the  midst  of  our  great  gladness  —  right  when 
it  is  most  beautiful  —  far  before  me,  right  across  our  way, 
is  a  place  that  is  dim.  It  seems  'most  like  the  shadows 
that  fall  on  the  hills  when  those  great  piles  of  clouds  pass 
through  the  sky,  when  it  is  deep  blue  all  around  them  and 
the  sun  shines  everywhere  else.'* 

"Your  soul  is  still  an  undiscovered  country  to  me, 
Cassandra." 

*'I  should  think  you'd  like  that.  Don't  men  love  to 
go  discovering  ?  And  if  you  could  get  into  the  secret 
chambers,  as  you  call  them,  you  wouldn't  find  much. 
Then  you'd  be  sorry." 

"Cassandra,  what  are  you  covering  and  holding  back  ?" 

"I  don't  know,  David.  It's  like  it  was  when  I  couldn't 
understand  the  message  of  the  'Voices'  !  When  it  comes 
clear  and  strong,  I'll  tell  you." 

"Then  there  is  something.'^" 
les. 

With  a  little  sigh,  she  rose  and  entered  the  cabin.  He 
sat  in  silence  as  she  had  left  him,  but  soon  she  returned. 
Standing  behind  him  in  the  darkness,  she  put  her  inter- 
laced fingers  under  his  chin  and  drew  his  face  backward 
until  she  could  see  it,  white  in  the  dusk,  beneath  her  eyes. 

"You  have  come  back  to  explain  ?'* 

"If  I  can,  David.  It's  hard  for  me  to  put  in  words  what 
is  so  dim  —  what  I  see.  It's  all  just  love  for  you,  David. 
The  love  burns  and  blazes  up  in  me  like  the  fire  when  it's 
fiercest  on  the  hearth,  when  the  day  is  cold  outside. 
You've  seen  it  so.  In  the  little  books  my  father  used  to 
read,  there  was  a  tale  of  a  woman  who  had  my  name. 
She  foretold  the  sorrows  to  come.  Perhaps  she  saw  as  I 
see  things  in  the  dim  pictures,  only  more  clearly,  and 
wisdom  was  given  her  to  interpret  them. 

"Often  and  often  I've  felt  that  in  me  —  that  strange 
seeing  and  knowing  before,  and  I  don't  like  it.  Only 
once  it  made  me  feel  glad  —  when  it  led  me  to  you  and 
Frale  that  terrible  moment.  But  it  wasn't  a  picture  that 
time;  it  was  a  feeling  that  pulled  me  and  made  me  go. 
I  would  have  gone  that  time  if  I  had  died  for  it." 

He  took  her  two  hands  and  covered  them  \\ath  kisses, 
there  in  the  darkness.  "I  told  you  you  were  my  priestess 
of  all  that  is  good." 


206  The  Mountain  Girl 

**But  I  don't  want  to  be  always  seeing  the  shadows  and 
foreboding.  I  want  to  be  all  happy  —  happy  7—  the 
way  you  are." 

"I  believe  you  are  one  of  the  blessed  ones  of  God  who 
have  *  the  gift ' ;  but  you  are  right  to  feel  as  you  do.  Your 
life  will  be  more  normal  and  wholesome  not  to  try  to  probe 
into  the  future.  I'll  not  attempt  to  take  my  coarser  hu- 
manity into  your  holy  places,  dear." 

He  led  her  into  their  canvas  sleeping  chamber,  and  there 
she  was  soon  calmly  slumbering  at  his  side ;  but  he  lay 
long  pondering  and  trying  to  see  his  way  out  of  a  certain 
dilemma  of  unrest  that  had  been  creeping  into  his  veins 
and  prodding  him  forward  ever  since  his  reestablished 
health  had  become  an  assured  fact.  He  recognized  it 
as  no  more  than  the  proper  impulse  of  his  manhood  not 
to  stagnate  and  slumber  in  a  lotus  dream,  even  as  delicious 
a  dream  as  this.  Ah,  it  was  inevitable.  His  world  must 
become  her  world. 

Herein  lay  the  dilemma.  This  unsullied,  beautiful 
being  must  enter  that  sordid  old  world,  that  had  so  pressed 
upon  him  and  broken  him  down.  This  idyl  might  go  on 
for  perhaps  a  year  longer  —  but  not  for  always  —  not  for 
always. 

He  slept  at  last,  and  dreamed  that  they  were  being  driven 
along  a  dark,  cold  river,  wide  and  swift;  that  they  had 
entered  it  where  it  was  only  a  narrow,  rushing  stream, 
sparkling  and  tumbling  over  rocks,  and  winding  in  intricate 
turnings  on  itself ;  that  they  had  laughed  as  they  followed 
it,  plashing  among  the  stones  where  she  led  him  by  the 
hand,  until  it  grew  wider  and  deeper  and  colder,  and  they 
were  lifted  from  their  feet  and  were  tossed  and  swirled 
about,  and  she  cried  and  clung  to  him,  and  even  as  he 
clasped  her  and  held  her,  he  knew  her  to  be  slipping  from 
him.  Then  in  terror  he  aw^oke,  and,  reaching  out  in  the 
darkness,  drew  her  into  his  embrace  and  slept  again. 


CHAPTER  XXn 

IN   WHICH   DAVID   TAKES   LITTLE   HOYLE   TO   CANADA 

"David,"  said  his  wife  next  day,  as  he  came  whistling 
up  to  his  cabin  from  the  farm  below,  "do  you  mind  if  I 
give  mother  a  little  help  with  the  weaving  ?  Mattie  can't 
do  it.  She's  right  nigh  spoiled  the  counterpane  we  had 
on  when  she  came,  and  since  mother's  hurt,  she  can't  work 
the  treadles,  so  now  the  hotel's  open  Miss  Mayhew  may 
come  and  find  them  not  half  done." 

"Do  I  mind  .^  AMiy  should  I  mind,  if  you  don't  'right 
nigh'  spoil  your  back  and  wear  yourself  out  ?" 

"Then  I'll  go  down  with  you  after  dinner  and  see  can  I 
patch  up  Mattie's  mistakes.     It  takes  so  much  patience 

—  a  loom  does,  to  understand  it." 

Mattie  was  the  cousin  David  had  imported  from  the  low 
countrv  to  relieve  Cassandra  from  the  burden  of  the  work 
in  the  home  below.  Although  a  disappointment  to  them, 
she  still  did  her  work  after  her  own  fashion,  clumsily  and 
slowly,  but  her  Aunt  'Marthy'was  never  at  rest,  prodding 
the  dull  nature  forward,  trying  to  make  her  take  the  inter- 
est Cassandra  had  done. 

David  had  wisely  persuaded  his  wife  to  leave  them  to 
themselves,  to  work  out  the  problem  of  adjustment  to  the 
new  conditions  as  best  they  might,  and  his  persuasions 
had  been  of  a  more  peremptory  nature  than  he  realized. 
To  Cassandra  they  had  been  as  commands,  but  now  — 
when  the  weaving  on  which  the  widow  had  counted  so 
much  was  likely  to  be  ruined  by  Mattie's  unskilled  hands 

—  the  old  mother  had  declared  she  could  not  bear  to  see 
her  niece  around  and  should  "pack  her  off  whar  she  come 
from." 

Therefore  Cassandra  had  made  her  timid  request  —  the 
first  evidence  of  shrinking  from  her  husband  she  had  ever 
given.  WTiy  was  it  ?  he  asked  himself.  ^Yhat  had  he 
ever  said  or  done  to  make  her  prefer  a  request  in  that  way  ? 

207 


208  The  Mountain  Girl 

But  it  was  over  in  an  instant,  and  her  own  poised  manner 
returned  as  they  ate  and  chatted  together. 

Little  Hoyle  came  running  up  to  eat  with  them.  He 
had  conceived  a  disUke  to  the  home  below  since  the  incum- 
bent had  come  to  take  his  sister's  place,  and  evaded  thus, 
as  often  as  possible,  his  mother's  vigilance.  David  did  not 
mind  the  intrusion,  but  suffered  the  adoring  little  chap 
to  sit  at  his  side,  ever  twisting  his  small  body  about  to  fix 
his  great  eyes  on  David's  face,  while  he  plied  him  with 
questions  and  hung  on  his  words  too  intent  to  attend  to 
his  own  eating  unless  admonished  thereto  by  his  sister. 

"If  you  don't  eat,  son,  I'll  send  you  back  to  mother," 
she  threatened. 

"I  won't  go,"  he  rebelled  joyously.  "I'll  jes'  set  here 
'longside  brothah  David." 

"No,  you  won't,  young  man.  You'll  do  whatever  sister 
says.  That's  what  I  do."  He  put  his  hand  on  th^  boy's 
tousled  head  and  turned  him  about  to  his  plate,  well  filled 
with  food  still  untouched,  but  he  noticed  that  the  child  ate 
listlessly,  more  as  an  act  of  obedience  than  from  a  normal 
desire.  He  glanced  up  at  his  wife  and  saw  that  she  also 
noticed  Hoyle's  languor.  They  finished  the  meal  in  a 
silence  only  broken  by  Hoyle's  questions  and  David's 
replies,  now  serious,  now  teasing  and  bantering. 

"You  are  so  full  of  interrogation  points  you  have  no 
room  for  your  dinner.  Here  —  (Ji'ink  this  milk  —  slowly ; 
don't  gulp  it." 

"I  know  what  they  be.  They  go  this-a-way."  The 
boy  set  down  his  glass  to  illustrate  with  his  slender  little 
hand  the  form  of  the  question  mark.  Then  he  laughed 
out  gayly.  "You  know  hu'  come  I  got  filled  up  with  them 
things  ?  I  done  swallered  that  thar  catechism  Cass  b'en 
teachin'  me  Sundays." 

"No,  I'm  thinking  you  just  are  one  yourself." 

"'Cause  I'm  crooked  like  this-a-way.'^"  He  twisted 
about  and  looked  up  at  David  gravely. 

"No,  no,  son.  Doctor  didn't  mean  that,"  said  his 
sister. 

"Finish  your  milk,"  said  David.  "We'll  have  some  fun 
with  the  microscope."  And  once  again  the  child  essayed 
to  eat  and  drink  a  little. 

But  the  languor  and  pallor  grew  in  spite  of  all  David 


David  takes  Hoyle  to  Canada  209 

could  do  for  him,  and  as  the  weeks  passed  his  large  eyes 
burned  more  brilliantly  and  his  thin  form  grew  more 
meagre.  Cassandra  got  in  the  way  of  keeping  him  up  at 
the  cabin  with  her,  and  when  she  went  down  to  weave, 
he  went  also  and  used  to  lie  on  the  bundles  of  cotton,  poring 
over  the  books  which  David  procured  for  him  from  time 
to  time. 

"What  he  gets  in  that  way  won't  hurt  him.  It's  not 
like  having  set  tasks  to  learn,  and  he's  not  burdened  with 
any  'ought '  or  'ought  not '  about  it.  Let  him  vege- 
tate until  cooler  weather.  Then,  if  he  doesn't  improve, 
we'll  see  what  can  be  done.     Something  radical,  I  imagine." 

The  fall  arrived  in  a  splendor  that  was  truly  oriental 
m  its  gorgeousness.  The  changing  colors  of  the  foliage 
surpassed  in  brilliancy  anything  David  had  ever  seen 
or  imagined  possible.  The  mantle  of  deepest  green  which 
had  clothed  the  mountain  sides  all  summer,  became  trans- 
muted, until  all  the  world  was  glorified  and  glowing  as  if 
the  heat  of  the  summer  sun  had  been  stored  up  during  the 
drowsy  days  to  burst  forth  thus  in  warmest  reds  and  golds. 

"The  hills  look  as  if  they  had  clothed  themselves  in 
Turkish  rugs,  ancient  and  fine,"  said  David  one  evening, 
as  he  sat  on  his  rock,  watching  them  burn  in  the  afterglow 
of  the  setting  sun. 

"How  much  there  is  for  me  to  learn  and  know,"  Cas- 
sandra replied  in  a  low  voice.  "  I  never  saw  a  Turkish  rug. 
You  often  speak  of  things  I  know  nothing  about." 

David  laughed  and  turned  upon  her  happy  eyes.  "  Why 
so  sad  for  that  ?  Did  you  think  I  loved  you  and  married 
you  for  your  worldly  knowledge  ?  "  She  smiled  back  at  him 
and  was  silent.  Presently  he  continued.  "Now,  while 
Hoyle  is  not  here,  I  wish  to  talk  to  you  a  little  about  him." 

"Yes,  David."  Her  heart  fluttered  with  a  nameless 
fear,  but  she  betrayed  no  sign  of  emotion. 

"You've  seen,  of  course.     It's  not  necessary  to  tell  you." 

"No,  David  —  only  —  does  it  mean  death  ?  "  She  put 
her  hand  out  to  him,  and  he  took  it  in  his  and  stroked  it. 

"Not  surely.  We'll  make  a  fight  for  him,  won't  we, 
dear.?" 

"Oh,  David  !     What  can  we  do  ?''  she  moaned. 

"There's  a  thing  to  do  that  I've  been  reserving  as  a  last 


no  The  Mountain  Girl 

resort.  I  think  the  time  has  come  to  try  it.  This  curva- 
ture presses  on  some  vital  part,  and  the  action  of  his  heart 
is  uncertain.  He  needs  the  tonic  of  the  cold,  —  the  ice 
and  snow.  Would  you  trust  him  to  me,  dear  ?  I'll  take 
him  to  Doctor  Hoyle.  You  know  very  well  everything 
kindness  and  skill  can  do  will  be  done  for  him  there." 

"Yes,  yes,  David.  You  are  so  good  to  him  always! 
Would  —  would  you  go  —  alone  with  him  ?  "  She  drew 
closer  to  him,  her  head  on  his  shoulder  and  her  hand  in  his, 
but  he  could  not  see  her  face. 

"You  mean  without  you,  dearest  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"That  may  be  as  you  say.  Would  you  prefer  to  go 
with  us?" 

She  drew  a  long  breath,  slowly,  like  an  indrawn  sigh,  and 
something  trembled  to  pass  her  heart,  but  suddenly  the 
old  habit  of  reserve  sealed  her  lips  and  she  remained  silent. 

"Wliat  do  you  say .?"  he  urged. 

"Tell  me  first  —  do  you  want  me  to  go  .^^ " 

He  was  silent,  and  they  sat  waiting  for  each  other.  Then 
he  said,  "I  do  want  you  to  go  —  and  yet  I  don't  want 
you  to  go  —  yet.  Sometime,  of  course,  we  must  go  where 
I  may  find  wider  scope  for  my  activities."  He  felt  her 
quiver  of  anxiety.  "Not  until  you  are  quite  ready  your- 
self, dear,  always  remember  that."  Still  she  was  silent, 
and  he  continued:  "I  can't  say  that  I'm  quite  ready 
myself.  I  would  prefer  one  more  year  here,  but  Hoyle 
must  be  removed  without  delay.  We  may  have  waited 
too  long  as  it  is.  Will  your  mother  consent  ?  She  must, 
if  she  cares  to  see  him  live." 

"  Oh,  David  !  Go,  go.  Take  him  and  go  to-morrow. 
Leave  me  here  and  go  —  but  —  come  back  to  me,  David, 
soon  —  very  soon.  I  —  I  shall  need  you,  I —  Can  you 
leave  Hoyle  there  and  come  back,  David  ?  Or  must  you 
bide  there,  too  ?  "  Suddenly  she  bowed  her  face  in  her 
hands.  "  Oh,  I'm  so  wicked  and  selfish  to  think  of  leaving 
him  there  without  you  or  me  or  mother  —  one.  David, 
what  can  we  do  ?  He  might  die  there,  and  you  —  you 
must  come  back  for  the  winter ;  what  would  save  him, 
might  kill  you.  Oh,  David  !  Take  me  with  you,  and 
leave  me  there  with  him,  and  you  come  back.  Doctor 
Hoyle  will  take  care  of  him  —  of  us  —  once  we  are  there." 


David  takes  Hoyle  to  Canada  211 

**Now,  now,  now  !  hold  your  dear  heart  in  peace.  Why, 
I'm  well.  To  stay  another  winter  would  only  be  to  es- 
tablish myself  in  a  more  rugged  condition  of  body  —  not 
that  I  must  do  so.  We'll  talk  with  your  mother  to-mor- 
row.    It  may  be  hard  to  persuade  her.'* 

But  he  found  the  mother  most  reasonable  and  practical. 
He  even  tried  to  abate  her  perfect  trust  in  him  and  his 
ability  to  bring  the  child  back  to  her  quite  well  and  strong. 

"This  isn't  a  trouble  that  is  ever  really  cured,  you  know. 
When  taken  young  enough,  it  may  be  helped,  and  I've 
known  people  who  have  lived  long  and  useful  lives  in  spite 
of  it.     That's  all  we  may  hope  for." 

"Waal,  I  'low  ye  can't  git  him  no  younger'n  he  be  now, 
an'  he's  that  peart,  I  reckon  he's  worth  hit  —  leastways 
to  we-uns." 

"Of  course  he's  worth  it." 

"You  are  right  good  to  keer  fer  him  like  you  have.  I'd 
do  a  heap  fer  you  ef  I  could.  All  I  have  is  jest  this  here 
farm,  an'  hit's  fer  you  an'  Cass.  On'y  ef  ye'd  'low  me  an* 
leetle  Hoyle  to  bide  on  here  whilst  we  live  — " 

David  was  touched.  "Do  you  realize  I've  found  here 
the  two  greatest  things  in  the  world,  love  and  health  ? 
All  I  want  is  for  you  to  know  and  remember  that  if  I  can't 
succeed  in  doing  all  I  would  like  for  the  boy,  at  least  I 
tried  my  very  best.  I  may  not  succeed,  you  know,  but 
this  is  the  only  thing  to  do  now  —  the  only  thing." 

David  parted  from  his  young  wife,  leaving  her  standing 
in  the  door  of  their  cabin,  clad  in  her  white  homespun 
frock,  smiling,  yet  tearful  and  pale.  He  was  to  walk 
down  to  the  Fall  Place,  where  Jerry  Carew  waited  with 
the  wagon  in  which  he  had  arrived,  and  where  his  baggage 
had  been  brought  the  day  before.  When  he  came  to  the 
steepest  part  of  the  descent,  he  looked  back  and  saw 
Cassandra  still  standing  as  if  in  a  trance,  gazing  after 
him.  He  felt  his  heart  lean  towards  her,  and,  turning 
sharply,  walked  swiftly  to  her  and  took  her  once  more 
in  his  arms  and  looked  down  into  those  deep  springs  — 
her  sweet  gray  eyes.  Thus  for  a  long  moment  he  held 
her  to  his  heart  with  never  a  word.  Then  she  entered 
the  little  home,  and  he  walked  away,  looking  back  no 
more. 


CHAPTER   XXIII 

IN  WHICH   DOCTOR   HOYLE   SPEAKS   HIS  MIND 

Doctor  Hoyle  sat  in  his  office  staring  straight  before 
him,  not  as  if  he  were  looking  at  David  Thryng,  who  sat 
in  range  of  his  vision,  but  as  if  seeing  beyond  him  into 
some  other  time  and  place.  David  had  been  speaking, 
but  now  they  both  were  silent,  and  the  young  man  won- 
dered if  his  old  friend  had  really  been  paying  attention 
to  his  words  or  not. 

"Well,  Doctor,"  he  said  at  last. 

"Well,  David." 

"You  don't  seem  satisfied.     Is  it  with  my  condition?'* 

"Your  condition .f^  No,  no,  no!  It's  not  your  con- 
dition. Yes,  yes  —  fine,  fine.  I  never  saw  such  a  mar- 
vellous change  in  my  life,  never  !" 

David  smiled  over  the  old  doctor's  stammer  of  enthu- 
siasm. It  was  as  if  his  thoughts,  fertile  and  vehement, 
and  the  feelings  of  his  great,  warm  heart  welled  up  within 
him,  and,  trying  to  burst  forth  all  at  once,  tumbled  over 
themselves,  unable  to  secure  words  rapidly  enough  in 
which  to  give  themselves  utterance. 

"Then  why  so  silent  and  dubious.^" 

"Why  —  why  —  y — ^young  man,  I  wasn't  thinking  any- 
thing about  you  just  then."  And  again  David  laughed, 
while  his  wiry  old  friend  jumped  up  and  walked  rapidly 
and  restlessly  about  the  small  apartment  and  laughed  in 
sympathy.     "It's  not  —  not — " 

"I  know."  David  grew  instantly  sober  again.  "Of 
course  the  little  chap's  case  is  serious  —  very  —  or  I  would 
not  have  brought  him  to  you." 

"Oh,  no,  no,  I'm  not  thinking  of  Adam,  bless  you,  no." 
The  doctor  always  called  his  little  namesake  Adam. 
"I'm  thinking  of  her  —  the  little  girl  you  left  behind  you. 
Yes  —  yes.     Of  her." 

212 


Doctor  Hoyle  speaks  his  Mind  213 

"She's  not  so  little  now,  Doctor ;  she's  tall  —  tall  enough 
to  be  beautiful." 

"I  remember  her,  —  slight  —  slight  little  creature, 
all  eyes  and  hair,  all  soul  and  mind.  Now  what  are  you 
going  to  do  with  her,  eh.^^" 

"  AVhat  is  she  going  to  do  with  me,  rather  !  I'll  go  back 
to  her  as  soon  as  I  dare  leave  the  boy." 

"But,  man  alive!  what  —  what  are  —  you  can't 
live  down  there  all  your  days.  It's  to  be  life  and  work 
for  you,  sir,  and  what  are  you  going  to  do  with  her,  I 
say?" 

"I'll  bring  her  here  with  me.     She'll  come." 

"Of  course  you'll  bring  her  here  with  you,  and  you  — 
you'll  have  plenty  of  friends.  Maybe  they'll  appreciate 
her,  and  maybe  they  won't ;  maybe  they  won't,  I  say ; 
Understand  ?  And  she'll  c — come.  Oh,  yes,  she'll  come  ! 
she'll  do  whatever  you  say,  and  presently  she'll  break 
her  heart  and  die  for  you.  She'll  never  say  a  word,  but 
that's  what  she'll  do." 

"Why,  Doctor!"  cried  David,  appalled.  "I  love  her 
as  my  own  life  —  my  very  soul." 

"Of  —  of  course.  That  goes  without  saying.  We 
all  do,  we  men,  but  we  —  damn  it  all !  Do  you  sup- 
pose I've  lived  all  these  years  and  not  seen  ?  Why  —  w^e 
think  of  ourselves  first  every  time.  D — don't  we,  though  ? 
Rather!" 

"But  selfish  as  we  are,  we  can  love  —  a  man  can,  if  he 
sets  himself  to  it  honestly,  —  love  a  woman  and  make  her 
happy,  even  without  the  appreciation  of  others,  in  spite 
of  environment,  —  everything.  It's  the  destiny  of  women 
to  love  us,  thank  God.  She  would  have  been  doomed 
surely  to  die  if  she  had  married  the  one  who  wanted  her 
first  —  or  to  live  a  life  for  her  worse  than  death." 

"Oh,  Lord  bless  you,  boy,  yes.  It's  a  woman's  destiny. 
I'm  an  old  fool.  There  —  there's  my  own  little  girl,  she's 
m — married  and  gone  —  gone  to  live  in  England.  They 
will  do  it  —  the  women  will.     Come,  we'll  go  see  Adam." 

The  doctor  sprang  up,  brushed  his  hand  across  his  eyes, 
and  caught  up  a  battered  silk  hat.  He  turned  it  about 
and  looked  at  it  ruefully,  with  a  quizzical  smile  playing 
about  the  corners  of  his  eyes.  "Remember  that  hat.'^" 
he  asked. 


214  The  Mountain  Girl 

"Well  do  I  remember  it.  You've  driven  many  a  mile 
in  many  a  rainstorm  by  my  side  under  that  hat !  When 
you're  done  with  it,  leave  it  to  me  in  your  will.  I  have  a 
fancy  for  it.     Will  you  ?  " 

"Here,  take  it  —  take  it.  I'm  done  with  it.  Mary 
scolds  me  every  day  about  it.  No  p — peace  in  life  because 
of  it.  Here's  a  new  one  I  bought  the  other  day  —  good 
one  —  good  enough." 

He  lifted  a  box  which  had  fallen  from  his  cluttered  office 
table,  and  took  from  it  a  new  hat  which  had  evidently  not 
been  unpacked  before.  He  tried  it  on  his  head,  turned  it 
about  and  about,  took  it  off  and  gazed  at  it  within  and 
without,  then  hastily  tossed  it  aside  and,  snatching  his 
old  one  from  David  put  it  on  his  head,  and  they  started 
off. 

Hoyle  had  been  placed  in  a  small  ward  where  were  only 
two  other  little  beds,  both  occupied,  with  one  nurse  to 
attend  on  the  three  patients.  One  of  them  had  broken 
his  leg  and  had  to  lie  in  a  cast,  and  the  other  was  convalesc- 
ing from  fever,  but  both  were  well  enough  to  be  compan- 
ionable with  the  lonely  little  Southerner.  Hoyle's  face 
beamed  upon  David  as  he  bent  over  him. 

"I  kin  make  pi'chers  whilst  I'm  a-lyin'  here,"  he  cried 
ecstatically.  "That  thar  lady,  she  'lows  me  to  make 
'em.  She  'lows  mine're  good  uns."  David  glanced  at 
the  young  woman  indicated.  She  was  pleasant-faced 
and  rosy,  and  looked  practical  and  good. 

"He's  such  an  odd  little  chap,"  she  said. 

"W^hat  be  that  —  odd  .^  Does  hit  mean  this  'er  lump 
on  my  back  .5^"  He  pulled  David  down  and  w^hispered 
the  question  in  his  ear. 

"No,  no.  She  only  means  that  you're  a  dear,  queer 
little  chap." 

"Whatbelquarefer?" 

"What  are  all  these  drawings.^  Tell  us  what  they 
mean." 

"This'n,  hit's  the  ocean,  an'  that  thar,  hit's  a  steamship 
sailin'  on  th'  ocean,  like  you  done  tol'  me  about.  An' 
this'n,  hit's  our  house  an'  here's  whar  ol'  Pete  bides  at; 
an'  this'n's  ol'  Pete  kickin'  out  like  he  hated  somethin'  like 
he  does  when  we  give  Frale's  colt  his  corn  first."  The 
other  small  boys  from  their  beds  laughed  out  merrily  and 


Doctor  Hoyle  speaks  his  Mind  215 

strained  their  necks  to  see.  "These're  theirn.  I  made 
this'n  fer  him  an'  this'n  fer  him." 

He  tossed  the  pictures  feebly  toward  them,  and  they 
fluttered  to  the  floor.  David  gathered  them  up  and  gave 
them  to  their  respective  owners.  The  old  doctor  stood 
beside  the  cot  and  looked  down  on  the  Uttle  artist.  His 
lips  twitched  and  his  eyes  twinkled. 

"Which  one  is  y — yours  .'^"  he  asked. 

"I  keep  this'n  with  the  sea  —  an'  —  here,  I  made  this'n 
fer  you."  He  paused,  and  selected  carefully  among  the 
pile  of  papers  under  his  hand.  "You  reckon  you  kin  tell 
what  'tis  ^  " 

The  doctor  took  the  paper  and  regarded  it  gravely  a 
moment,  then  lifted  his  eyebrows  and  made  grimaces  of 
wonderment  until  the  three  patients  in  the  three  little 
beds  were  in  gales  of  laughter.     At  last  he  said :  — 

"It's  a  pile  of  s — sausages." 

"Hit  hain't  no  sausages.  Hit's  jest  a  straight,  cl'ar 
pi'cher  of  a  house,  an'  hit's  your  house,  too,  whar  brothah 
David  lives  at.  See  ?  Thar's  the  winder,  an'  the  other 
winder  hit's  on  t'othah  side  whar  you  can't  see  hit." 

The  doctor  turned  the  paper  over  and  regarded  it  a 
moment.  "Show  me  the  window.  I  —  I  see  no  window 
on  the  other  side." 

Again  the  three  little  invalids  laughed  uproariously  at 
their  visitor.  David  smilingly  looked  on.  How  often 
had  he  seen  the  delightful  old  man  amuse  himself  thus 
with  the  children  !  He  would  contort  his  mobile  face  into 
all  the  varying  expressions  of  wonder  and  dismay,  of  terror 
or  stupefaction,  and  his  entrance  to  the  children's  ward 
was  always  greeted  with  outcries  of  delight,  when  the  little 
ones  were  well  enough  to  allow  of  such  freedom. 

"Haven't  you  one  to  send  to  your  sister  ?  "  asked  David, 
stooping  low  to  the  child  and  speaking  quietly.  The  boy's 
face  lighted  with  a  radiant  smile  that  caused  the  old  man 
to  stand  regarding  him  more  intently. 

"We'll  sen'  her  this'n  of  the  sea.  You  reckon  hit  looks 
like  the  ocean  whar  the  ships  go  a-sailin'  to  t'othah  side 
o'  the  world  V^  He  held  it  in  his  slender  fingers  and  eyed 
it  critically. 

"How  did  j^ou  come  to  try  to  make  a  picture  of  the  sea 
when  you  never  saw  it  .^ " 


216  The  Mountain  Girl 

"Do'  know.  I  feel  like  I  done  seed  th'  ocean  when  I'm 
settin'  thar  on  the  rock  an'  them  white,  big  clouds  go 
a-sailin'  far  —  far,  like  they're  goin'  to  anothah  world 
an'  hain't  quite  touchin'  this'n." 

"I  wondered  why  you  had  your  ship  so  high  above  the 
sea." 

"I  don't  guess  hit's  a  very  good'n,"  said  the  child, 
ruefully,  clinging  to  the  scrap  of  paper  with  reluctant 
grasp.     "You  reckon  she'd  keer  fer  this'n.^" 

"I  reckon  she'd  care  for  anything  you  made.  Give  it  to 
me,  and  I'll  send  it  to  her." 

"She  tol'  me  the  sea,  hit  war  blue,  an'  I  can't  make  hit 
right  blue  an'  soft  like  she  said.  That  thar  blue  pencil, 
hit's  too  slick.     I  can't  make  hit  stay  on  the  papah." 

"What  are  these  mounds  here  on  either  side  of  the 
sea.'' 

"Them's  mountains." 

"But  why  did  you  put  mountains  in  the  sea?"  The 
boy  looked  with  wide  eyes  dreamily  past  the  two  men 
so  attentively  regarding  him. 

"I  —  I  reckon  I  jes'  put  'em  thar  fer  to  look  like  the  sea 
hit  war  on  the  world.  I  don't  guess  the'd  be  no  ocean  nor 
no  world  'thout  the'  war  mountains  fer  to  hold  everything 
whar  hit  belongs  at." 

"I  shall  bring  you  a  box  of  paints  to-morrow  if  the  nurse 
will  allow  you  to  have  them.  I'll  provide  an  oilcloth  to 
spread  around  so  he  won't  throw  paint  over  your  nice 
clean  bed,"  he  said  to  the  pleasant-faced  young  woman. 

"That's  all  right,  Doctor,"  she  said. 

"Then  you  can  make  the  blue  stay  on,  and  you  can  make 
the  ocean  with  real  water,  and  real  blue  for  the  sky  and 
the  sea." 

The  child's  eyes  glowed.  He  pulled  David  down  and 
held  him  with  his  arm  about  his  neck,  and  whispered  in 
his  ear,  and  what  he  said  was :  — 

"When  they're  a-pullin'  on  me  to  git  my  hade  straight 
an'  my  back  right,  I  jes'  think  'bout  the  far — far-away  sea, 
with  the  ships  a-sailin'  an'  how  hit  look,  an'  hit  don't  hurt 
so  much.  I  kin  b'ar  hit  a  heap  bettah.  When  you  comin' 
back,  brothah  David  ?  " 

"Does  itjburt  you  very  much,  Hoyle.'^" 

"I  reckon  hit  have  to  hurt,"  said  the  child,  with  fatalis- 


Doctor  Hoyle  speaks  his  Mind  217 

tic  resignation.  "I  don't  guess  he'd  hurt  me  'thoiit  he 
had  to."  He  released  David  slowly,  then  pulled  him 
down  again.  "Don't  tell  him  I  'lowed  hit  hurted  me.  I 
reckon  he'd  ruthah  hurt  hisself  if  he  could  do  me  right 
that-a-way.  You  guess  I  —  I'm  goin'  to  git  shet  o'  the 
misery  some  day  ?  " 

"That's  what  we're  trying  for,  my  brave  little  brother,'* 
and  the  two  physicians  bade  the  small  patients  good-by 
and  walked  out  upon  the  street. 


CHAPTER   XXIV 

IN   WHICH   DAVID   THRYNG   HAS  NEWS   FROM   ENGLAND 

As  they  passed  down  the  street,  David  shivered  and 
buttoned  his  light  overcoat  closer  about  him. 

"Cold  ?"  said  the  older  man. 

"Your  air  is  a  bit  keen  here  already.  I  hope  it  will  be 
the  needed  tonic  for  that  little  chap." 

"What  were  his  s — secrets?"     David  told  him. 

"He's  imaginative  —  yes  —  yes.  I  really  would  rather 
hurt  myself.     He  may  come  on  —  he  may.     I've  known 

—  I've  known  —  curious,  but  —  Why  —  Hello  —  hello  ! 
Why  —  where — "  and  Doctor  Hoyle  suddenly  darted 
forward  and  shook  hands  with  another  old  gentleman, 
who  was  alertly  stepping  toward  them,  also  thin  and  wiry, 
but  with  a  face  as  impassive  as  the  doctor's  was  mobile 
and    expressive.     "Mr.    Stretton,    why  —  why!    David 

—  Mr.  Stretton,  David  Thryng— " 

"Ah,  Mr.  Thryng.     I  am  most  happy  to  find  you  here." 

"Doctor  Thryng  —  over  here  on  this  side,  you  know." 

"Ah,  yes.     I  had  really  forgotten.     But  speaking  of 

titles  —  I  must  give  this  young  man  his  correctly.     Lord 

Thryng  —  allow  me  to  congratulate  you,  my  lord." 

"I  fear  you  mistake  me  for  my  cousin,  sir,"  said  David, 
smiling.  "I  hope  you  have  no  ill  news  from  my  good 
uncle;  but  I  am  not  the  David  who  inherits.  I  think 
he  is  in  South  Africa  —  or  was  by  the  latest  home  letters." 
Mr.  Stretton  did  not  reply  directly,  but  continued 
smiling,  as  his  manner  was,  and  turned  toward  David's 
companion. 

"Shall  we  go  to  my  hotel  ?  I  have  a  great  deal  to  talk 
over  —  business  which  concerns  —  ahem  —  ahem  —  your 
lordship,  on  behalf  of  your  mother,  having  come  ex- 
pressly— "  he  turned  again  to  David.  "Ah,  now  don't 
be  at  all  alarmed,  I  beg  of  you.  I  see  I  have  disturbed  you. 
She  is  quite  well,  or  was  a  week  or  more  ago.     Doctor 

218 


News  from  England  219 

Hoyle,  you'll  accompany  us  ?  At  my  request.  Undoubt- 
edly you  are  interested  in  your  young  friend." 

Mechanically  David  walked  with  the  two  older  men, 
filled  with  a  strange  sinking  of  the  heart,  and  at  the  same 
time  with  a  vague  elation.  Was  he  called  home  by  his 
mother  to  help  her  sustain  a  new  calamity  ^  Had  the 
impossible  happened .?  Mr.  Stretton's  manner  continued 
to  be  mysteriously  deferential  toward  him,  and  something 
in  his  air  reminded  David  of  England  and  the  atmosphere 
of  his  uncle's  stately  home.  Had  he  ever  seen  the  man 
before  ?     He  really  did  not  know. 

They  reached  the  hotel  shortly  and  were  conducted 
to  Mr.  Stretton's  private  apartment,  where  wine  was 
ordered,  and  promptly  served.  For  years  thereafter, 
David  never  heard  the  clinking  of  glasses  and  bottles 
borne  on  a  tray  without  an  instant's  sickening  sinking 
of  the  heart,  and  the  foreboding  that  seemed  to  drench 
him  with  dismay  as  the  glasses  were  placed  on  the  stand 
at  Mr.  Stretton's  elbow.  When  that  gentleman,  after 
seeing  the  waiter  disappear,  and  placing  certain  papers 
before  him,  began  speaking,  David  sat  dazedly  listening. 

What  was  it  all  —  what  was  it  ^  The  glasses  seemed 
to  quiver  and  shake,  throwing  dancing  flecks  of  light; 
and  the  vane  in  them  —  why  did  it  make  him  think  of 
blood  ?  Were  they  dead  then  —  all  three  —  his  two 
cousins  and  his  brother  —  dead  ^  Shot !  Killed  in  a 
bloody  and  useless  war  !  He  was  confounded,  and  bowing 
his  head  in  his  hands  sat  thus  —  his  elbows  on  his  knees 
—  waiting,  hearing,  but  not  comprehending. 

He  could  think  only  of  his  mother.  He  saw  her  face, 
aged  and  grief-stricken.  He  knew  how  she  loved  the  boy 
she  had  lost,  above  all,  and  now  she  must  turn  to  himself. 
He  sat  thus  while  the  lawyer  read  a  lengthy  document, 
and  at  the  end  personally  addressed  him.  Then  he 
lifted  his  head. 

"What  is  this?  My  uncle  .'^  My  uncle  gone,  too.f* 
Do  you  mean  dead .?  My  uncle  dead,  and  I  —  I  his 
heir .?  " 

The  lawyer  replied  formally,  "You  are  now  the  head 
of  a  most  ancient  and  honorable  house.  You  will  have 
the  dignity  of  the  old  name  to  maintain,  and  are  called 
upon    to   return    to  your    fatherland    and    occupy  the 


220  The  Mountain  Girl 

home  of  your  ancestors."  He  took  up  one  of  the  papers 
and  adjusted  his  monocle. 

For  a  time  David  did  not  speak.  At  last  he  rose  and, 
with  head  erect,  extended  his  hand  to  the  lawyer.  "I 
thank  you,  sir,  for  your  trouble,  —  but  now.  Doctor, 
shall  we  return  to  your  house  ?  I  must  take  a  little  time 
to  adjust  my  mind  to  these  terrible  events.  It  is  like 
being  overtaken  with  an  avalanche  at  the  moment  when 
all  is  most  smiling  and  perfect." 

The  lawyer  began  a  few  congratulatory  remarks,  but 
David  stopped  him,  with  uplifted  hand. 

**It  is  calamitous.  It  is  too  terrible,"  he  said  sadly. 
"And  what  it  brings  may  be  far  more  of  a  burden  than  a 

joy." 

"But  the  name,  my  lord,  —  the  ancient  and  honor- 
able lineage  !  " 

"That  last  was  already  mine,  and  for  the  title  —  I  have 
never  coveted  it,  far  less  all  that  it  entails.  I  must  think 
it  over." 

"But,  my  lord,  it  is  yours  !  You  can't  help  your- 
self, you  know ;  a  —  the  —  the  position  is  yours,  and  you 
will  a  —  fill  it  with  dignity,  and  —  a  —  let  me  hope  will 
follow  the  conservative  policy  of  your  honored  uncle." 

"And  I  say  I  must  think  it  over.  May  I  not  have  a  day 
—  a  single  day  —  in  which  to  mourn  the  loss  of  my  splen- 
did brother  ?  Would  God  he  had  lived  to  fill  this  place  !  " 
he  said  desperately. 

The  lawyer  bowed  deferentially,  and  Doctor  Hoyle 
took  David's  arm  and  led  him  away  as  if  he  were  his  son. 
Not  a  word  was  spoken  by  either  of  them  until  they  were 
again  in  the  doctor's  office.  There  lay  the  new  silk  hat, 
as  he  had  tossed  it  one  side.  He  took  it  up  and  turned  it 
about  in  his  hand. 

"You  see,  David,  an  old  hat  is  like  an  old  friend,  and 
it  takes  some  time  to  get  wonted  to  a  new  one."  He 
gravely  laid  the  old  one  within  easy  reach  of  his  arm  and 
restored  the  new  one  to  its  box.  Then  he  sat  himself 
near  David  and  placed  his  hand  kindly  on  his  knee. 
"You  —  you  have  your  work  laid  out  for  you,  my  young 
friend.  It's  the  way  in  Old  England.  The  stability  of 
our  society  —  our  national  life  demands  it." 

"I  know." 


News  from  England  221 

"You  must  go  to  your  mother." 
Yes,  I  must  go  to  her." 

Of  course,  of  course,  and  without  delay.     Well,  I'll 
take  care  of  the  Httle  chap." 

*'I  know  you  will,  better  than  I  could."  David  lifted 
his  eyes  to  his  old  friend's,  then  turned  them  away.  "I 
feel  him  to  be  a  sacred  trust."  Again  he  paused.  "It 
—  would  take  a  —  long  time  to  go  to  her  first  ?  " 

"To  —  her.'^"  For  the  instant  the  old  man  had  for- 
gotten Cassandra.     Not  so  David. 

"My  wife.     It  will  be  desperately  hard  —  for  her." 

"Yes,  yes.  But  your  uncle,  you  know,  died  of  grief, 
and  your  m — mother  —  " 

"I  know  —  so  the  lawyer  said.  Now  at  last  we'll  read 
mother's  letter.  He  wondered,  I  suppose,  that  I  didn't 
look  at  it  when  he  gave  it  to  me,  but  I  felt  conscience- 
stricken.  I've  been  so  filled  with  my  life  down  there  — 
the  peace,  the  blessed  peace  and  happiness  —  that  I  have 
neglected  her  —  my  own  mother.  I  couldn't  open  and 
read  it  with  that  man's  eyes  on  me.  No,  no.  Stay 
here,  I  beg  of  you,  stay.    You  are  different.    I  want  you." 

He  opened  his  mother's  letter  and  slowly  read  it,  then 
passed  it  to  his  friend  and,  rising,  walked  to  the  window 
and  stood  gazing  down  into  the  square.  Autumn  leaves 
were  being  tossed  and  swirled  in  dancing  flights,  like 
flocks  of  brown  and  yellow  birds  along  the  street.  The 
sky  was  overcast,  with  thin  hurrying  clouds,  and  the 
feeling  of  autumn  was  in  the  air,  but  David's  eyes  were 
blurred,  and  he  saw  nothing  before  him.  The  doctor's 
voice  broke  the  silence  with  sudden  impulse. 

"In  this  she  speaks  as  if  she  knew  nothing  about  your 
marriage." 

"I  told  you  I  had  neglected  her,"  cried  David,  con- 
tritely. 

"  But,  m — man  alive  !  why  —  why  in  the  name  of  all  the 
gods  —  " 

"All  England  is  filled  with  fools,"  cried  the  younger 
man,  desperately.  "I  could  never  in  the  world  make 
them  understand  me  or  my  motives.  I  gave  it  up  long 
ago.  I've  not  told  my  mother,  to  save  her  from  a  need- 
less sorrow  that  would  be  inflicted  on  her  by  her  friends. 
They  would  all  flock  to  her  and  pester  her  with  their 


222  The  Mountain  Girl 

outcry  of  *  How  very  extraordinary  ! '  I  can  hear  them 
and  see  them  now.  I  tell  you,  if  a  man  steps  out  of  the 
beaten  track  over  there  —  if  he  attempts  to  order  his 
own  life,  marry  to  please  himself,  or  cut  his  coat  after 
any  pattern  other  than  the  ordinary  conventional  lines, 

—  even  the  boys  on  the  street  will  fling  stones  at  him. 
Her  patronizing  friends  would,  at  the  very  least,  politely 
raise  their  eyebrows.  She  is  proud  and  sensitive,  and  any 
fling  at  her  sons  is  a  blow  to  her." 

"But  what  —  " 

*'I  say  I  couldn't  tell  her.  I  tell  you  I  have  been  drink- 
ing from  the  cup  of  happiness.  I  have  drained  it  to  the  last 
drop.  My  wife  is  mine.  She  does  not  belong  to  those 
people  over  there,  to  be  talked  over,  and  dined  over,  and 
all  her  beauty  and  fineness  overlooked  through  their  mon- 
ocles —  brutes  !  My  mountain  flower  in  her  homespun 
dress  —  only  poets  could  understand  and  appreciate  her." 

"B — but  what  were  you  going  to  do  about  it  .f* " 

**Do  about  it.^  I  meant  to  keep  her  to  myself  until 
the  right  time  came.  Perhaps  in  another  year  bring 
her  here  and  begin  life  in  a  modest  way,  and  let  my 
mother  visit  us  and  see  for  herself.  I  was  planning  it 
out,  slowly  —  but  this  —  You  see.  Doctor,  their  ideas 
are  all  warped  over  there.  They  accept  all  that  cus- 
tom decrees  and  have  but  the  one  point  of  view.  The 
true  values  of  life  are  lost  sight  of.  They  have  no  hill- 
tops like  Cassandra's.     Only  the  poets  have." 

A  quizzical  smile  played  about  the  old  man's  mouth. 
He  came  and  laid  his  arm  across  David's  shoulders,  and 
the  act  softened  the  slight  sting  of  his  words.     "And 

—  you  call  yourself  a  poet  ?  " 

"Not  that,"  said  the  young  man,  humbly,  "but  I 
have  been  learning.  I  would  have  scorned  to  be  called 
a  poet  until  I  learned  of  this  girl  and  her  father.  I  thought 
I  had  ideals,  and  felt  my  superiority  in  consequence,  until 
I  came  down  to  the  beginnings  of  things  with  them." 

"Her  —  her  father  ?     Why  —  he's  dead  —  he  —  " 

"And  yet  through  her  I  have  learned  of  him.  I  believe 
he  was  a  man  who  walked  witk  God,  and  at  Cassandra's 
side  I  have  trod  in  his  secret  places." 

"That's  right.  I'm  satisfied  now,  about  her.  You're 
all  right,  but  —  but  —  your  mother," 


News  from  England  223 

David  turned  and  walked  to  the  table  and  sat  with  his 
head  bowed  on  his  arms.  Had  he  been  alone,  he  would 
have  wept.  As  it  was,  he  spoke  brokenly  of  his  old  home, 
and  the  responsibilities  now  so  ruthlessly  thrust  upon  him. 
Of  his  mother's  grief  and  his  own,  and  of  this  inherit- 
ance that  he  had  never  dreamed  would  be  his,  and 
therefore  had  never  desired,  now  given  him  by  so 
cruel  a  blow.  He  would  not  shrink  from  whatever  duty 
or  obligation  might  rest  upon  him,  but  how  could  he 
adjust  his  changed  circumstances  to  the  conditions  he 
had  made  for  himself  by  his  sudden  marriage.  At  last 
it  was  decided  that  he  should  sail  for  England  without 
delay,  taking  the  passage  already  provisionally  engaged 
for  him  by  Mr.  Stretton. 

"I  can  write  to  Cassandra.  She  will  understand  more 
easily  than  my  mother.  She  sees  into  the  heart  of  things. 
Her  thoughts  go  to  the  truth  like  arrows  of  light.  She 
will  see  that  I  must  go,  but  she  must  never  know  —  I 
must  save  her  from  it  if  I  have  to  do  so  at  the  expense  of 
my  own  soul  —  that  the  reason  I  cannot  take  her  with 
me  now  is  that  our  great  friends  over  there  are  too  small 
to  understand  her  nature  and  might  despise  her.  I 
must  go  to  my  mother  first  and  feel  my  way  —  see  what 
can  be  done.     Neither  of  them  must  be  made  to  suffer.'* 

*' That's  right,  perfectly  —  but  don't  wait  too  long. 
Just  have  it  out  with  your  mother  —  all  of  them ;  the 
sooner  the  simpler,  the  sooner  the  simpler." 


CHAPTER  XXV 

IN   WHICH   DAVID   THRYNG   VISITS   HIS   MOTHER 

How  wise  was  the  advice  of  the  old  doctor  to  make 
short  work  of  the  confession  to  his  mother,  and  to 
face  the  matter  of  his  marriage  bravely  with  his  august 
friends  and  connections,  David  little  knew.  If  his  marriage 
had  been  rash  in  its  haste,  nothing  in  the  future  should  be 
done  rashly.  Possibly  he  might  be  obliged  to  return  to 
America  before  he  made  a  full  revelation  that  a  wife 
awaited  him  in  that  far  and  but  dimly  appreciated  land. 
In  his  mind  the  matter  resolved  itself  into  a  question  of 
time  and  careful  adjustment. 

Slowly  as  the  boat  ploughed  through  the  never  rest- 
ing waters,  —  slowly  as  the  western  land  with  its  dreams 
and  realities  drifted  farther  into  the  vapors  that  blended 
the  line  of  the  land  and  the  sea,  —  so  slowly  the  future  un- 
veiled itself  and  drew  him  on,  into  its  new  dreams,  re- 
vealing, with  the  inevitable  progression  of  the  hours, 
a  life  heretofore  shrouded  and  only  vaguely  imagined,  as  a 
glowing  reality  filled  with  opportunity  and  power. 

He  felt  his  whole  nature  expand  and  become  imbued 
with  intoxicating  ambitions,  as  if  hereafter  he  would  be 
swept  onward  to  ride  through  life  triumphant,  even  as 
the  boat  was  riding  the  sea,  surmounting  its  mysterious 
depths  and  taking  its  unerring  way  in  spite  of  buffeting 
of  winds  and  beating  of  waves. 

Still  young,  with  renewed  vitality,  his  hopes  turned  to 
the  future,  recognizing  the  tremendous  scope  for  his  ener- 
gies which  his  own  particular  prospects  presented.  Often 
he  stood  alone  in  the  prow,  among  the  coils  of  rope,  and 
watched  the  distance  unroll  before  him,  while  the  salt 
breeze  played  with  his  clustering  hair  and  filled  his  lungs. 
He  loved  the  long  sweep  of  the  prow,  as  it  divided  the 
water  and  cast  it  foaming  on  either  side,  in  opaline  and 
turquoise  tints,  shifting  and  falling  into  the  indigo  depths 
of  the  vastness  around. 

224 


David  visits  his  Mother  225 

In  thought  he  spanned  the  wide  spaces  and  leaped 
still  toward  the  future ;  before  him  the  gray-haired  mother 
who  trembled  to  hold  him  once  more  in  her  arms,  behind 
him  the  young  wife  waiting  his  return,  enclosing  him  se- 
renely and  adoringly  in  her  heart. 

Each  day  while  on  shipboard,  David  wrote  to  Cas- 
sandra, voluminously.  He  found  it  a  pleasant  way  of 
passing  the  hours.  He  described  his  surroundings  and 
unfolded  such  of  his  anticipations  as  he  felt  she  could 
best  understand  and  with  which  she  could  sympathize, 
trying  to  explain  to  her  what  the  years  to  come  might 
hold  for  them  both,  and  telling  her  always  to  wait  with  pa- 
tience for  his  return.  This  could  not  be  known  definitely 
until  he  had  looked  into  the  state  of  his  uncle's  affairs  — 
which  would  hereafter  be  his  own. 

Sometimes  his-  letter  contained  only  a  review  of  some 
of  the  happiest  hours  they  had  spent  together,  as  if  he 
were  placing  his  thoughts  of  those  blessed  days  on  paper, 
that  they  might  be  for  their  mutual  communing.  Some- 
times he  discoursed  of  the  calamity  he  had  suffered,  the 
uselessness  of  his  brother's  death,  and  the  cruelty  and 
wastefulness  of  war.  At  such  times  he  was  minded  to 
write  her  of  the  opportunity  now  given  him  to  serve  his 
country,  and  the  power  he  might  some  day  attain  to  pro- 
mote peace  and  avert  rash  legislation. 

Never  once  did  he  allow  an  inadvertent  word  to  slip 
from  his  pen,  whereby  she  could  suspect  that  she,  as  his 
wife,  might  be  a  cause  of  embarrassment  to  him,  or  a  clog 
in  the  wheel  of  the  chariot  which  from  now  on  was  to  bear 
him  triumphantly  among  his  social  friends  or  political 
enemies.  Never  would  he  disturb  the  sweet  serenity  that 
encompassed  her.  Yet  well  he  knew  what  an  incongruity 
she  would  appear  should  he  present  her  now  —  as  she  had 
stood  by  her  loom,  or  in  the  ploughed  field  at  his  side  —  to 
the  company  he  would  find  in  his  mother's  home. 

Simple  and  direct  as  she  was,  she  would  walk  over  their 
conventions  and  proprieties,  and  never  know  it.  How 
strange  many  of  those  customs  of  theirs  would  appear  to 
her,  and  how  unnecessary  !  He  feared  for  her  most  in 
her  utter  ignorance  of  everything  pertaining  to  the  daily 
existence  of  the  over-civilized  circle  to  which  the  changed 
conditions  of  his  life  would  bring  her. 


£26  The  Mountain  Girl 

Much,  he  knew,  would  pass  unseen  by  her,  but  soon  she 
would  begin  to  understand,  and  to  wince  under  their 
exclamations  of  "How  extraordinary!"  The  masklike 
expression  would  steal  over  her  face,  her  pride  would  en- 
case her  spirit  in  the  deep  reserve  he  himself  had  found  so 
hard  to  penetrate,  and  he  could  see  her  withdrawing  more 
and  more  from  all,  until  at  last  —  Ah  !  it  must  not  be. 
He  must  manage  very  carefully,  lest  Doctor  Hoyle's 
prophecy  indeed  be  fulfilled. 

At  last  the  lifting  of  the  veil  to  the  eastward  revealed 
the  bold  promontory  of  Land's  End,  and  soon,  beyond, 
the  fair  green  slopes  of  his  own  beautiful  Old  England. 
For  all  of  the  captious  criticism  he  had  fallen  in  the  way  of 
bestowing  upon  her,  how  he  loved  her  !  He  felt  as  if  he 
must  throw  up  his  arms  and  shout  for  joy.  Suddenly 
she  had  become  his,  with  a  sense  of  possession  new  to  him, 
and  sweet  to  feel.  The  orderliness  and  stereotyped  lines 
of  her  social  system  against  which  he  had  rebelled,  and 
the  iron  bars  of  her  customs  which  his  soul  had  abhorred 
in  the  past,  —  against  which  his  spirit  had  bruised  and 
beaten  itself,  —  now  lured  him  on  as  a  security  for  things 
stable  and  fine.  In  subtile  ways  as  yet  unrealized,  he  was 
being  drawn  back  into  the  cage  from  which  he  had  fled  for 
freedom  and  life. 

How  quickly  he  had  become  accustomed  to  the  air  of 
deference  in  Mr.  Stretton's  continual  use  of  his  newly 
acquired  title  —  "my  lord."  Why  not  .^^  It  was  his 
right.  The  same  laws  which  had  held  him  subservient  be- 
fore, now  gave  him  this,  and  he  who  a  few  months  earlier 
had  been  proudly  ploughing  his  first  furrows  in  his  little 
leased  farm  on  a  mountain  meadow,  now  walked  with 
lifted  head,  "to  the  manor  born,"  along  the  platform,  and 
entered  the  first-class  compartment  with  Mr.  Stretton, 
where  a  few  rich  Americans  had  already  installed  them- 
selves. 

David  noticed,  with  inward  amusement,  their  surrepti- 
tious glances,  when  the  lawyer  addressed  him ;  how  they 
plumed  themselves,  yet  tried  to  appear  nonchalant  and 
indifferent  to  the  fact  that  they  were  riding  in  the  same 
compartment  with  a  lord.  In  time  he  would  cease  to 
notice  even  such  incongruities  as  this  tacit  homage  from 
a  professedly  title-scorning  people. 


David  visits  his  Mother  227 

David's  mother  had  moved  into  the  town  house,  whither 
his  uncle  had  sent  for  her,  when,  stricken  with  grief,  he 
had  lain  down  for  his  last  brief  illness.  The  old  servants 
had  all  been  retained,  and  David  was  ushered  to  his 
mother's  own  sitting-room  by  the  same  household  digni- 
tary who  was  wont  to  preside  there  when,  as  a  lad,  he  had 
been  allowed  rare  visits  to  his  cousins  in  the  city. 

How  well  he  remembered  his  fine,  punctilious  old  uncle, 
and  the  feeling  of  awe  tempered  by  anticipation  with 
which  he  used  to  enter  those  halls.  He  was  overwhelmed 
with  a  sense  of  loss  and  disaster  as  he  glanced  up  the 
great  stairway  where  his  cousins  were  wont  to  come  bound- 
ing down  to  him,  handsome,  hearty,  romping  lads. 

It  had  been  a  man's  household,  for  his  aunt  had  been 
dead  many  years  —  a  man's  household  characterized  by  a 
man's  sense  of  heavy  order  without  the  many  touches  of 
feminine  occupation  and  arrangement  which  tend  to  soften 
a  man's  half  military  reign.  As  he  was  being  led  through 
the  halls,  he  ndticed  a  subtile  change  which  warmed  his 
quick  senses.  Was  it  the  presence  of  his  mother  and 
Laura  ?  His  entrance  interrupted  an  animated  conversa- 
tion which  was  being  held  between  the  two  as  the  man- 
servant announced  his  name,  and,  in  another  instant,  his 
mother  was  in  his  arms. 

"Dear  little  mother!  Dear  little  mother!"  But  she 
was  not  small.  She  was  tall  and  dignified,  and  David 
had  to  stoop  but  little  to  bring  his  eyes  level  with  hers. 

"David,  I'm  here,  too."  A  hand  was  laid  on  his  arm, 
and  he  released  his  mother  to  turn  and  look  into  two  warm 
brown  eyes. 

"And  so  the  little  sister  is  grown  up,"  he  said,  embrac- 
ing her,  then  holding  her  off  at  arm's-length.  "Five  years  ! 
When  I  look  at  you,  mother,  they  don't  seem  so  long  — 
but  Laura  here  !" 

"You  didn't  expect  me  to  stay  a  little  girl  all  my  life, 
did  you,  David  ?" 

"No,  no."  He  took  her  by  the  shoulder  and  shook  her 
a  little  and  pinched  her  cheeks.  "What  roses  !  Why,  sis, 
I  say,  you  know,  I'm  proud  of  you.  What  have  you  been 
up  to,  anyway  .^  "  He  flung  himself  on  the  sofa  and  pulled 
her  down  beside  him.     "Give  an  account  of  yourself." 

"I've  gone  in  for  athletics,'* 


228  The  Mountain  Girl 

"Right." 

"And  —  Oh  !  lots  of  things.  You  give  an  account  of 
yourself." 

David  glanced  at  his  mother.  She  was  seated  opposite 
them,  regarding  him  with  brimming  eyes.  No,  he  could 
not  give  an  account  of  himself  yet.  He  would  wait  until 
he  and  his  mother  were  alone.  He  lifted  Laura's  heavy 
hair,  which,  confined  only  by  a  great  bow  of  black  ribbon, 
hung  streaming  down  her  back,  in  a  dark  mass  that  gave 
her  a  tousled,  unkempt  look,  and  which,  taken  together 
with  her  dead  black  dress,  and  her  dark  tanned  skin, 
roughened  by  exposure  to  wind  and  sun,  greatly  marred 
her  beauty,  in  spite  of  her  roses  and  the  warmth  of  her 
large  dark  eyes. 

As  David  surveyed  his  sister,  he  thought  of  Cassandra, 
and  was  minded  then  and  there  to  describe  her  —  to 
attempt  to  unveil  the  events  of  the  past  year,  and  make 
them  see  and  know,  as  far  as  possible,  what  his  life  had 
been.  He  held  this  thought  a  moment,  poised  ready  for 
utterance  —  a  moment  of  hesitation  as  to  how  to  begin, 
and  then  forever  lost,  as  his  mother  began  speaking. 

"Laura  hasn't  come  out  yet.  As  events  have  turned, 
it  is  just  as  well,  for  her  chances,  naturally,  will  be  much 
better  now  than  they  would  have  been  if  we  had  had  her 
coming  out  last  year." 

"I  don't  see  how,  mamma,  with  all  this  heavy  black. 
I  can't  come  out  until  I  leave  it  off,  and  it  will  be  so  long 
to  wait."  Laura  pouted  a  little,  discontentedly,  then 
flushed  a  disfiguring  flush  of  shame  under  her  dark  skin, 
as  she  caught  the  look  in  her  brother's  eyes.  "Not  but 
what  I  shall  keep  on  mourning  for  Bob,  as  long  as  I  live 

—  he  was  such  a  dear,"  she  added,  her  eyes  filling  with 
quick,  impulsive  tears.  "But  how  you  make  out  my 
chances  will  be  better  now,  mamma,  I  can't  see,  really, 

—  I  look  such  a  fright." 

"Chances  for  what  V  asked  David,  dryly. 

"For  matrimony  —  naturally,"  his  sister  flung  out 
defiantly,  half  smiling  through  her  tears.  "Don't  you 
know  that's  all  a  girl  of  my  age  lives  for  —  matrimony 
and  a  kennel  ^  I  mean  to  have  one,  now  we  will  have  our 
own  preserves.     It  will  be  ripping,  you  know." 

"Certainly,  our  own  preserves,"  said  David,  still  dryly, 


David  visits  his  Mother  229 

thinking  how  Cassandra  would  wonder  what  preserves 
were,  and  what  she  would  say  if  told  that  in  preserves,  wild 
harmless  animals  were  kept  from  being  killed  by  the 
common  people  for  food,  in  order  that  those  of  his  own 
class  might  chase  them  down  and  kill  them  for  their 
amusement. 

"Oh,  David,  I  remember  how  you  used  to  be  always 
putting  on  a  look  like  that,  and  thinking  a  lot  of  nasty 
things  under  your  breath.  I  hoped  you  would  come  home 
vastly  improved.  Was  it  what  I  said  about  matrimony  ? 
Mamma  knows  it's  true." 

"Hardly  as  you  put  it,  my  child ;  there  is  much  besides 
for  a  girl  to  think  about." 

"You  said  'chances'  yourself,  mamma." 

"Certainly,  but  that  is  for  me  to  consider.  You  must 
remember  that  it  was  you  who  refused  to  have  your  coming 
out  last  year." 

"I  didn't  want  my  good  times  cut  short  then,  mamma, 
and  have  to  take  up  proprieties  —  or  at  least  I  would 
have  had  to  be  dreadfully  proper  for  a  while,  anyway  — 
and  now  —  why  I  have  to  be  naturally ;  and  here  I  am 
unable  to  come  out  for  another  year  yet  and  my  hair 
streaming  down  my  back  all  the  time.  I'm  sure  I  can't 
see  how  my  chances  are  in  the  least  improved  by  it  all; 
and  by  that  time  I  shall  be  so  old." 

"Oh,  you  will  be  quite  young  enough,"  said  David. 

"You  occupy  a  far  different  position  now,  child.  To 
make  your  debut  as  Lady  Laura  will  give  you  quite  an- 
other place  in  the  world.  Your  headstrong  postpone- 
ment, fortunately,  will  do  no  harm.  It  will  make  your 
introduction  to  the  circle  where  you  are  eventually  to 
move,  much  simpler." 

Laura  lifted  her  eyebrows  and  glanced  from  her  mother 
to  her  brother.  "Very  well,  mamma,  but  one  thing  you 
might  as  well  know  now.  I  shan't  drop  some  of  my 
friends  —  if  being  Lady  Laura  lifts  me  above  them  as  high 
as  the  moon.     I  like  them,  and  I  don't  care." 

She  whistled,  and  a  beautiful,  silken-haired  setter  crept 
from  under  the  sofa  whereon  she  had  been  sitting,  and 
wriggled  about  after  the  manner  of  guilty  dogs. 

"Laura,  dear  !" 
'Yes,  mamma,  I've  been  hiding  him  with  my  skirts  by 


<<' 


230  The  Mountain  Girl 

sitting  there.  He  was  bad  and  followed  me  in.  We've 
been  out  riding  together."  She  stroked  his  silken  coat 
with  her  riding  crop.  *' Mamma  won't  allow  him  in  here, 
and  he  jolly  well  knows  it.  Bad  Zip,  bad,  sir  !  Look  at 
him.  Isn't  he  clever  ?  I  must  go  and  dress  for  dinner. 
Mamma  wants  you  to  herself,  I  know,  and  Mr.  Stretton 
will  be,  here  soon.  You  can't  think,  David,  how  glad  I 
am  we  have  you  back  !  You  couldn't  think  it  from  my 
way  —  but  I  am  —  rather  !  It's  been  awful  here  — 
simply  awful,  since  the  boys  all  left." 

Again  her  eyes  filled  with  quick  tears,  and  she  dashed 
out  with  the  dog  bounding  about  her  and  leaping  up  to 
thrust  his  great  tongue  in  her  face.  "You  are  too  big  for 
the  house.  Zip.  Down,  sir!"  In  an  instant  she  was 
back,  putting  her  tousled  head  in  at  the  door. 

*' David,  when  mamma  is  finished  with  you,  come  out 
and  see  my  dogs.  I  have  five  already,  and  Nancy  is  going 
to  litter  soon.  Calkins  is  to  take  them  into  the  country 
to-morrow,  for  they  are  just  cooped  up  here."  She  with- 
drew, and  David  heard  her  heavy-soled  shoes  clatter  down 
the  long  halls.  He  and  his  mother  smiled  as  they  listened, 
looking  into  each  other's  eyes. 

"She  is  a  dear  child,  but  life  means  only  a  good  time  to 
her  as  yet." 

"Well,  let  it.  She  has  splendid  stuff  in  her  and  is 
bound  to  make  a  splendid  woman." 

"She's  right,  David,  It  has  been  awful  since  your 
brother  left."  David  sat  beside  her  and  placed  his  hand 
on  hers.  Again  it  was  in  his  mind  to  tell  her  of  Cassandra, 
and  again  he  was  stopped  by  the  tenor  of  her  next  remark. 
"You  see  how  it  is,  my  son;  Laura  can't  understand,  but 
you  will." 

"I'm  not  sure  that  I  do.  Open  your  heart  to  me,  mother ; 
tell  me  what  you  mean.'* 

"My  dear  son.  I  don't  like  to  begin  with  worries.  It 
is  so  sweet  to  have  you  back  in  the  home.  May  you 
always  stay  with  us." 

"I  don't  mind  the  worries,  mother,"  he  said  tenderly; 
"I  am  here  to  help  you.     What  is  it  ?" 

"It  is  only  that,  although  we  have  inherited  the  title 
and  estates,  we  are  not  there.  We  will  be  received,  of 
course,  but  at  first  only  by  those  who  have  axes  to  grind. 


David  visits  his  Mother  231 

There  are  so  many  such,  and  it  is  hard  to  protect  one's 
self  from  them.  For  instance,  there  is  Lady  WiUisbeck. 
Her  own  set  have  cut  her  completely  for  —  certain  reasons 
—  there  is  no  need  to  retail  unpleasant  gossip, — but  she  was 
one  of  the  first  to  call.  Her  daughter,  Lady  Isabel,  gave 
Laura  that  dog,  —  but  all  the  more  because  Laura  and  Lady 
Isabel  were  in  school  together,  and  were  on  the  same  hockey 
team,  they  will  have  that  excuse  for  clinging  to  us  like  burs. 

"  Lady  WiUisbeck  would  like  very  much  now,  for  her 
daughter's  sake,  to  win  back  her  place  in  society,  although 
she  did  not  seem  to  value  it  for  herself.  Long  before  her 
mother's  life  became  common  talk, — because  slj^e  was  in- 
fatuated with  your  cousin  Lyon,  Lady  Isabel  chose  Laura 
for  her  chum,  and  the  two  have  worked  up  a  very  romantic 
situation  out  of  the  affair.  You  see  I  have  cause  for 
anxiety,  David,  since  the  title  is  only  mine  and  Laura's  by 
courtesy,  we  must  not  presume  upon  it." 

He  still  held  her  hand,  looking  kindly  in  her  face.  "  Is 
Lady  Isabel  the  right  sort  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  '  the  right  sort,'  David  ?  She 
isn't  like  her  mother,  naturally,  or  I  would  have  been  more 
decided  ;  but  she  is  not  the  right  sort  for  us.  Lady  Willis- 
beck  is  ostracized,  and  it  is  a  grave  matter.  Her  daughter 
will  be  ostracized  with  her,  unless  she  can  find  a  chaperone 
of  quality  to  champion  her  —  to  —  to  —  well,  you  under- 
stand that  Laura  can't  afford  to  make  her  debut  handi- 
capped with  such  a  friendship.     Not  now." 

"  I  fail  to  see  until  I  know  more  of  her  friend." 

"  But,  David,  we  can't  be  visionary  now.  We  must  be 
practical  and  face  the  difiiculties  of  our  situation.  We 
are  honorably  entitled  to  all  that  the  inheritance  implies, 
but  it  is  another  thing  to  avail  ourselves  of  it.  Your 
uncle  led  a  most  secluded  life.  He  had  no  visitors,  and 
was  known  only  among  men,  and  politically  as  a  close 
conservative.  His  seat  in  the  House  meant  onlv  that. 
So  now  we  enter  a  circle  in  which  we  never  moved  before, 
and  we  are  not  rf  it.  For  the  present,  our  deep  mourning 
is  prohibitory,  but  it  is  also  Laura's  protection,  although 
she  does  not  know  it."  His  mother  paused.  She  was 
not  regarding  him.  She  seemed  to  be  looking  into  the 
future,  and  a  little  line,  which  had  formed  during  the 
years  of  David's  absence,  deepened  in  her  forehead. 


232  The  Mountain  Girl 

"Be  a  little  more  explicit,  mother.  Protection  from 
what  ?  " 

"From  undesirable  people,  dear.  We  are  very  con- 
spicuous ;  to  be  frank,  we  are  new.  My  own  family  con- 
nections are  all  good,  but  they  will  not  be  the  slightest 
help  to  Laura  in  maintaining  her  position.  We  have 
always  lived  in  the  country,  and  know  no  one." 

"You  have  refinement  and  good  taste,  mother." 

"I  know  it;    that  and  this  inheritance  and  the  title." 

"Isn't  that  'protection'  enough  ?  I  really  fail  to  see  — 
Whatever  would  please  you  would  be  right.  You  may 
have  what  friendships  you  — " 

"Not  at  all,  David.  Everything  is  iron-bound. 
They  are  simply  watching  lest  we  bring  a  lot  of  common 
people  in  our  train.  Things  grow  worse  and  worse  in 
that  way.  There  are  so  many  rich  tradespeople  who  are 
struggling  to  get  in,  and  clinging  desperately  to  the  skirts 
of  the  poorer  nobility.  Of  course,  it  all  goes  to  show  what 
a  tremendous  thing  good  birth  is,  and  the  iron  laws  of 
custom  are,  after  all,  a  proper  safeguard  and  should  be 
respected.  Nevertheless  we,  who  are  so  new,  must  not 
allow  ourselves  to  become  stepping-stones.  It  is  per- 
fectly right. 

"That  is  why  I  said  this  period  of  mourning  is  Laura's 
protection.  She  will  have  time  to  know  what  friendships 
are  best,  and  an  opportunity  to  avoid  undesirable  ones. 
You  have  been  away  so  long,  David,  where  the  class  lines 
are  not  so  rigidly  drawn,  that  you  forget  —  or  never  knew. 
It  is  my  duty,  without  any  foolish  sentiment,  to  guard 
Laura  and  see  to  it  that  her  coming  out  is  what  it  should  be. 
For  one  thing,  she  is  so  very  plain.  If  she  were  a  beauty, 
it  would  help,  but  her  plainness  must  be  compensated  for 
in  other  ways.  She  will  have  a  large  settlement,  Mr. 
Stretton  thinks,  if  your  uncle's  interests  are  not  too  much 
jeopardized  in  South  Africa  by  this  terrible  war.  That 
is  something  you  will  have  to  look  into  before  you  take 
your  seat  in  the  House." 

"Oh,  mother,  mother  !  I  can't  — " 

"My  dear  boy,  your  brother  died  for  his  countr3^  and 
can  you  not  give  a  little  of  your  life  for  it  ?  I  can  rely  on 
you  to  be  practically  inclined,  now  that  you  are  placed  at 
the  head  of  such  a  family  ?     I'm  glad  now  you  never 


David  visits  his  Mother  233 

cared  for  Muriel  Hunt.  She  could  never  have  filled  the 
position  as  her  ladyship,  your  uncle's  wife,  did.  She 
was  Lady  Thomasia  Harcourt  Glendyne  of  Wales.  Be- 
side her,  Muriel  would  appear  silly.  It  is  most  fortunate 
you  have  no  such  entanglement  now." 

"Mother,  mother!  I  am  astounded!  I  never  dreamed 
my  dear,  beautiful  mother  could  descend  to  such  worldli- 
ness.  You  are  changed,  mother.  There  is  something  fun- 
damentally wrong  in  all  this." 

She  looked  up  at  him,  aghast  at  his  vehemence. 

'*My  son,  my  son  !     Let  us  have  only  love  between  us 

—  only  love.  I  am  not  changed.  I  was  content  as  I  was, 
nor  ever  tried  to  enter  a  sphere  above  me.  Now  that 
this  comes  to  me  —  forced  on  me  by  right  of  English  law 

—  I  take  it  thankfully,  with  all  it  brings.  I  will  fill  the 
place  as  it  should  be  filled,  and  Laura  shall  do  the  same, 
and  you  also,  my  son.  As  for  Muriel  Hunt,  I  will  make 
concessions  if  —  if  your  happiness  demands  it." 

David  groaned  inwardly.  "No,  mother,  no.  It  goes 
deeper  than  Muriel;  it  goes  deeper."  They  had  both 
risen.  She  placed  her  hands  on  his  shoulders  and  looked 
levelly  in  his  eyes,  and  her  own  lightened,  through  tears 
held  bravely  back. 

"It  may  well  go  deeper  than  Muriel,  and  still  not  go 
very  deep." 

"  And  yet  the  time  was  when  Muriel  Hunt  was  thought 
quite  deep  enough,"  he  said  sadly,  still  looking  in  his 
mother's  eyes  —  but  she  only  continued  :  — 

"  Never  doubt  for  a  moment,  dear,  that  Laura's  welfare 
and  yours  are  dearer  to  me  than  life.  You  are  very 
weary;  I  see  it  in  your  eyes.  Have  you  been  to  your 
apartment  ?  Clark  will  show  you."  She  kissed  his  brow 
and  departed. 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

IN   WHICH   DAVID   THRYNG  ADJUSTS   HIS   LIFE   TO   NEW 

CONDITIONS 

David  stood  where  his  mother  had  left  him,  dazed, 
hurt,  sad.  He  was  desperately  minded  to  leave  all  and 
flee  back  to  the  hills  —  back  to  the  life  he  had  left  in 
Canada.  He  saw  the  clear,  true  look  of  Cassandra's  eyes 
meeting  his.  His  heart  called  for  her;  his  soul  cried  out 
within  him.  He  felt  like  one  launched  on  an  irresistible 
current  which  was  sweeping  him  ever  nearer  to  a  mael- 
strom wherein  he  was  inevitably  to  be  swallowed  up. 

He  perceived  that  to  his  mother  the  established  order 
of  things  there  in  her  little  island  was  sacred —  an  arrange- 
ment to  be  still  further  upheld  and  solidified.  She  had 
suddenly  become  a  part  of  a  great  system,  intrusted 
with  a  care  for  its  maintenance  and  stability,  as  one  of  its 
guardians.  Before,  it  had  mattered  little  to  her,  for  she 
was  not  of  it.     Now  it  was  very  different. 

Slowly  David  followed  Clark  to  his  own  apartments. 
He  had  been  given  those  of  the  old  lord,  his  uncle.  Every- 
thing about  him  was  dark,  massive,  and  rich,  but  without 
grace.  His  bags  and  boxes  had  been  unpacked  and  his 
dinner  suit  laid  in  readiness,  and  Clark  stood  stiffly  await- 
ing orders. 

"Will  you  have  a  shave,  my  lord  ?" 

The  man's  manner  jarred  on  him.  It  was  obsequious, 
and  he  hated  it.  Yet  it  was  only  the  custom.  Clark  was 
simple-hearted  and  kindly,  filling  his  little  place  in  the 
upholding  of  the  system  of  which  he  was  a  part ;  had  his 
manner  been  different,  a  shade  more  familiar,  David  would 
have  resented  it  and  ordered  him  out,  —  but  of  this  David 
was  not  conscious.  In  spite  of  his  scruples,  he  was  born 
and  bred  an  aristocrat. 

"No  —  a  —  I'll  shave  myself."  Still  the  man  waited, 
and,  taking  up  David's  coat,  flicked  a  particle  of  dust 
from  the  collar.     " I  don't  want  anything.     You  may  go." 

234 


New  Conditions  235 

"Thank  you."  Clark  melted  quietly  out  of  the  apart- 
ment. 

"Thanks  me  for  being  rude  to  him,"  thought  David, 
irritably  ;  "I  shall  take  pleasure  in  being  rude  to  him.  My 
God  !  What  a  farce  life  is  over  here  !  The  whole  thing  is 
a  farce." 

He  shaved  himself  and  cut  his  chin,  and  when  he  ap- 
peared later  with  a  patch  of  court-plaster  thereon,  Clark 
commented  to  himself  on  "his  lordship's"  inability  to  do 
the  shaving  properly. 

As  David  thought  over  his  mother's  words  —  her  out- 
look on  life  —  his  sister's  idle  aims  —  the  companionships 
she  must  have  and  the  kind  of  talk  to  which  she  must 
listen  —  he  grew  more  and  more  annoyed.  He  contrasted 
it  all  with  the  past.  His  mother,  who  had  been  so  noble 
and  fine,  seemed  to  have  lost  individuality,  to  have  become 
only  a  segment  of  a  circle  which  it  was  henceforth  to  be 
her  highest  care  to  keep  intact.  Laura  must  become  a 
part  of  the  same  sacred  ring,  and  he,  too,  must  join  hands 
with  those  who  formed  it  and  make  it  his  duty  to  keep 
others  out. 

There  were  also  other  circles  guarded  and  protected  by 
this  one  —  circles  within  circles  —  each  smaller  and  more 
exclusive  than  the  last.  The  object  of  the  huge  game  of 
life  over  here  seemed  to  be  to  keep  the  great  mass  of  those 
whom  they  regarded  as  commonalty  out  of  any  one  of  the 
circles,  while  striving  individually  each  to  climb  into  the 
one  next  above,  and  more  contracted.  The  most  madden- 
ing thing  of  all  was  to  find  his  grave,  dignified  mother 
drawn  in  and  made  a  partaker  in  this  meaningless  strife. 

Still  essentially  an  outsider,  David  could  look  with 
larger  vision  —  the  far-seeing  vision  of  the  western  land, 
the  hilltops  and  the  dividing  sea,  —  and  to  him  now  the 
circles  seemed  verily  the  concentric  rings  of  the  maelstrom 
into  which  events  were  hurrying  him.  Would  he  be  able 
to  rise  from  the  swirling  flotsam  and  ride  free  ? 

The  deeper  philosophy  underlying  it  all  he  as  yet  but 
vaguely  understood ;  that  the  highest  good  for  all  could 
only  be  maintained  by  stability  in  the  commonwealth; 
as  the  tremendous  rock  foundations  of  the  earth  are  a 
support  for  the  growth  thereon  of  all  perfection,  all  grace 
and    beauty ;    that    the    concentric    rings,    when    rightly 


236  The  Mountain  Girl 

understood,  should  become  a  means  of  purification  —  of 
reward  for  true  worth  —  of  power  for  noblest  service,  and 
not  for  personal  ambition  and  the  unmolested  gratification 
of  vicious  tastes. 

David  did  not  as  yet  know  that  his  clear-seeing  wife 
could  help  him  to  the  attainment  of  his  greatest  possibili- 
ties, right  here  where  he  feared  to  bring  her  —  the  wife  of 
whom  he  dare  not  tell  his  mother.  Blinded  by  the  world's 
estimates  which  he  still  had  sense  enough  to  despise,  he 
did  not  know  that  the  key  to  its  deepest  secrets  lay  in  her 
heart,  nor  that  of  the  two,  her  heritage  of  the  large  spirit 
and  the  inward-seeing  eye  direct  to  the  Creator's  meanings 
was  the  greater  heritage. 

Lady  Thryng  found  it  possible  to  have  a  few  words  with 
the  lawyer  before  David  appeared,  and  impressed  upon 
him  the  necessity  of  interesting  her  son  in  this  new  field 
by  showing  him  avenues  for  power  and  work. 

"I  don't  quite  understand  the  boy,"  she  said.  "After 
seeing  the  world  and  going  his  own  way,  I  really  thought 
he  would  outgrow  that  sort  of  moody  sentimentalism,  but 
it  seems  to  be  returning.  He  is  quixotic  enough  to  turn 
away  from  everything  here  and  go  back  to  Canada,  unless 
you  can  awaken  his  interest." 

"I  see,  I  see,"  said  the  lawyer. 

"Mere  personal  ambition  will  not  satisfy  him,"  added 
his  mother,  proudly.  "He  must  see  opportunities  for 
service.     He  must  understand  that  he  is  needed." 

"I  see.  I  understand.  He  must  be  dealt  with  along 
the  line  of  his  nobler  impulses  —  ahem  —  ahem — "  and 
David  appeared. 

His  mother  rose  and  took  his  arm  to  walk  out  to  dinner, 
while  Laura,  who  should  have  gone  with  Mr.  Stretton, 
did  not  see  his  proffered  arm,  but,  provokingly  indifferent, 
strolled  out  by  herself. 

David,  absorbed  in  his  own  thoughts,  did  not  notice  his 
sister's  careless  mien,  but  the  mother  observed  the  inde- 
pendent and  boyish  swing  of  her  daughter's  shoulders,  and 
resented  it  with  a  slightly  reproving  glance  after  they  were 
seated. 

Laura  lifted  her  eyebrows  and  one  shoulder  with  an  irri- 
tating half  shrug.  "What  is  it,  mamma  V  she  asked,  but 
Ladv  Thryng  allowed  the  question  to  go  unheeded,  and 


New  Conditions  237 

turned  her  attention  to  the  two  gentlemen  during  the  rest 
of  the  meal. 

All  through  dinner  David  was  haunted  by  Cassandra's 
talk  with  him,  the  night  he  dreamed  she  was  being  swept 
out  of  his  arms  forever  by  a  swift,  cold  current  which,  from 
a  little  purling  stream  high  up  on  a  mountain  top,  had 
become  a  dark,  relentless  flood,  overwhelming  them  utterly. 
What  was  she  doing  now  ?  Did  she  know  she  was  in  that 
terrible  flood  ?  Was  she  really  being  swept  from  him  ? 
Ah,  never,  never  !  He  would  not  allow  it,  if  he  must 
break  all  hearts  but  hers. 

The  meal  progressed  sombrely  and  heavily,  with  much 
ceremony,  although  they  were  so  few.  Was  his  mother 
practising  for  the  future  that  she  kept  such  rigid  state  ?  He 
suspected  as  much,  and  that  Laura  was  being  trained  to  the 
right  way  of  carrying  herself,  but  that  and  the  real  sorrow 
of  the  family  over  their  bereavement  made  a  most  oppres- 
sive atmosphere.  Might  this  be  the  shadow  Cassandra 
had  seen  lying  across  their  future  ?  Only  a  passing  cloud 
—  a  vapor  ;  it  must  be  only  that. 

Laura  and  her  mother  withdrew  early,  leaving  David 
and  the  lawyer  together,  when  Mr.  Stretton  immediately 
launched  into  talk  of  David's  prospects  and  resources. 
In  spite  of  himself,  the  gloom  of  the  dinner  hour  slipped 
from  him,  and  soon  he  was  taking  the  liveliest  interest  in 
what  might  be  possible  for  him  here  and  now. 

Although  not  one  to  be  easily  turned  from  a  chosen  path 
by  outside  influence,  David  yet  had  that  almost  fatal  gift 
of  the  imaginative  mind  of  seeing  things  from  many  sides, 
until  at  times  they  took  on  a  kaleidoscopic  reversibility. 
Now  this  unlooked-for  development  of  his  life  opened  to 
him  a  vista  —  new  —  and  yet  old,  old  as  England  herself. 

While  digging  deep  into  the  causes  of  his  former  dis- 
content, he  had  come  to  strike  his  spade  upon  the  rock 
foundations  whereon  all  this  complicated  superstructure  of 
English  society  and  national  life  was  builded.  He  saw 
that  every  nobleman  inherited  with  his  title  and  his  lands 
a  responsibility  for  the  welfare  of  the  whole  people,  from 
the  poorest  laborer  in  the  ditch  or  the  coal  m^ne,  to  the 
head  wearing  the  crown ;  and  that  it  was  the  blindness  of 
individuals  like  himself  or  his  uncle  before  him,  their  misuse 
or  unscrupulous  indifference  to  and  abuse  of  power,  which 


238  The  Mountain  Girl 

had  brought  about  those  conditions  under  which  the 
masses  were  writhing,  and  against  which  they  were  crying 
out.  He  saw  that  it  was  only  by  the  earnest  efforts  of  the 
few  who  did  understand  —  the  few  who  were  not  indiffer- 
ent —  that  the  stabihty  of  EngHsh  government  was  still 
her  glory. 

At  last  he  rose  and  lifted  his  arms  high  above  his  head, 
then  dropped  them  to  his  side.  "I  see.'*  He  held  up 
his  head  and  looked  off  as  he  had  done  when  he  stood  on 
the  prow  of  the  steamship,  with  the  salt  breeze  tossing  his 
hair.  "A  little  of  this  came  to  me  as  I  crossed  the  ocean, 
when  I  saw  the  green  slopes  of  England  again.  I  knew  I 
loved  her,  and  the  old  feeling  of  impotence  that  hounded 
me  in  the  past,  when  I  could  do  nothing  but  rebel,  slipped 
from  me.  I  felt  what  it  might  be  to  have  power  —  to 
become  effective  instead  of  being  obliged  to  chafe  under  the 
yoke  of  an  imposed  submission  to  things  which  are  wrong 
—  things  which  those  who  are  in  power  might  set  right 
if  they  would.  I  believe,  for  a  moment,  Mr.  Stretton,  I 
felt  it  all." 

He  paused  and  bowed  his  head.  All  at  once  in  the  midst 
of  his  exaltation,  he  saw  Cassandra  standing  white  and 
still,  as  he  had  seen  her  on  the  hilltop  before  their  little 
cabin,  looking  after  him  when  he  bade  her  good-by ;  and 
just  as  he  then  turned  and  went  swiftly  back  to  her,  so 
now  in  his  soul  he  turned  to  her  yearningly  and  took  her 
to  his  breast.  Still  penetrating  the  sweet,  white  halo  of 
this  vision,  he  heard  the  voice  of  Mr.  Stretton  deferen- 
tially droning  on. 

"And  with  your  resources  —  the  wealth  which,  with  a 
little  care  and  thought  just  now  at  this  crucial  moment, 
will  be  yours — " 

Still  David  stood  with  bowed  head. 

"It  is  as  if  you  were  predestined,  my  lord,  to  step  in  at 
a  critical  time  of  your  country's  need  —  with  brains, 
education,  conscience,  and  wealth  —  with  every  obstacle 
swept  away." 

Still  before  him  stood  Cassandra,  white  and  silent;  he 
could  see  only  her. 

"Every  obstacle  swept  away,"  repeated  the  lawyer. 

"And  Cassandra,  God  help  her  and  me."  David  slowly 
turned,  lifted  a  glass  of  wine  from  the  table,  and  drank  it. 


New  Conditions  239 

"Well,  so  be  it,  so  be  it,"  he  said  aloud.  ** We'll  join 
mother  and  Laura."  At  the  door  he  paused,  "You  spoke 
of  education  —  the  learning  of  a  physician  is  but  little  in 
the  line  of  statesmanship.  How  soon  will  I  be  expected 
to  take  my  seat  .^" 

"If  you  ask  my  advice,  my  lord,  I  would  say  better 
wait  a  year.  It  will  be  advisable  for  you  to  go  yourself 
to  South  Africa  and  look  into  your  uncle's  investments 
there  —  as  a  private  individual,  of  course,  not  as  a  public 
servant.  Two-thirds  of  the  receipts  have  fallen  off  since 
the  war ;  learn  what  may  be  saved  from  the  wreckage,  or  if 
there  be  a  wreckage.  I'm  inclined  to  think  not  all,  for 
the  investments  were  varied.  Your  uncle  may  have  been 
a  silent  member,  but  he  was  certainly  a  man  of  good  busi- 
ness judgment — "  Mr.  Stretton  paused  and  coughed  a 
little  apologetically  before  adding:  "Not  an  inherited 
talent,  only  —  ah  —  cultivated  —  cultivated  —  you  know. 
Good  business  judgment  is  not  a  trait  inherent  in  our  peer- 
age, as  a  rule." 

David  was  amused  and  entered  the  drawing-room  with  a 
smile  on  his  face.  His  mother  was  pleased  and  rose  in- 
stantly, coming  forward  with  both  hands  extended  to  take 
his.  He  understood  it  as  a  welcome  back  to  the  family 
circle,  the  quiet  talks  and  the  evening  lamp,  less  formal 
than  the  oppressive  dinner  had  been.  He  held  her  hands 
thus  offered  and  kissed  the  little  anxious  line  on  her  brow, 
then  playfully  smoothed  it  with  his  finger. 

"We  mustn't  let  it  become  permanent,  you  know, 
mother." 

"No,  David.     It  will  go  now  you  are  at  home." 

He  did  not  know  that  his  mother  and  Laura  had  been 
having  a  liveh^  discussion  apropos  of  the  silent  tilt  at  the 
dinner-table,  his  sister  pleading  for  a  return  to  the  old 
ways,  and  a  release  from  such  state  and  ceremony.  "At 
least  while  we  are  by  ourselves,  mamma.  Anyway,  I 
know  David  will  just  hate  it,  and  I  don't  see  what  good  a 
title  is  if  we  must  become  perfect  slaves  to  it." 

David  crossed  the  room  and  sat  down  before  the  piano. 
"How  strange  this  old  place  seems  without  the  others  — 
Bob,  and  the  cousins,  and  uncle  himself  !  We  weren't 
admitted  often  —  but  — " 

"Sh  —  sh — "  said  Laura,  who  had  followed  him  and 


240  The  Mountain  Girl 

stood  at  his  side.  "Don't  remind  mamma.  She  remem- 
bers too  much  —  all  the  time.  Play  the  '  King's  Hunting 
Jig,'  David.  Remember  how  you  used  to  play  it  for  me 
every  evening  after  dinner,  when  I  was  a  girl  ?" 

*'Do  I  remember  ?  Rather  !  I  have  done  nothing  with 
the  piano  since  then  —  when  you  were  a  girl.  I'll  play  it 
for  you  now,  while  you  are  a  girl." 

"But  I  really  am  grown  up  now,  David.  It's  quite 
absurd  for  me  to  go  about  like  this.  It's  only  because 
mamma  chooses  to  have  it  so.  She  even  keeps  a  governess 
for  me  still." 

"To  her  you  are  a  child,  and  to  me  you  are  still  a  girl, 
and  a  mighty  fine  one." 

"It's  so  good  to  have  you  back,  David  !  You  haven't 
forgotten  the  Jig  !  Where's  your  flute  ?  Get  it,  and  I'll 
accompany  you.  I  can  drum  a  little  now  —  after  a 
fashion.     We'll  let  them  talk." 

So  they  amused  themselves  for  the  rest  of  the  evening 
with  music,  and  Lady  Thryng's  face  lost  the  strained  and 
harassed  expression  it  had  worn  all  during  dinner,  and 
took  on  a  look  of  contentment.  After  this  the  days  were 
spent  by  David  in  going  over  his  uncle's  large  mass  of 
papers  and  correspondence,  with  the  aid  of  Mr.  Stretton 
and  a  secretary.     A  colossal  task  it  proved  to  be. 

No  one,  even  his  lawyer,  who  had  his  confidence  more 
than  any  one  else,  knew  in  what  the  old  Lord  Thryng's 
wealth  really  consisted,  although  Mr.  Stretton  surmised 
much  of  his  surplus  income  of  late  years  had  been  placed 
in  Africa.  As  his  papers  had  not  been  set  in  order  or 
tabulated  for  years,  every  note,  land  loan,  mortgage,  and 
rental  had  to  be  unearthed  slowly  and  laboriously  from 
among  a  mass  of  written  matter  and  figures,  more  or  less 
worthless ;  for  the  old  lord  had  a  habit  of  saving  every 
scrap  of  paper  —  the  backs  of  notes  and  letters  —  for 
summing  up  accounts  and  jotting  down  memoranda  and 
dates. 

Certain  hours  of  each  day  David  devoted  to  this  labor, 
collecting  his  papers  in  a  small  room  opening  off  from  the 
law  chambers  of  Mr.  Stretton,  where  for  years  his  uncle 
had  kept  a  private  safe.  Conscientiously  he  toiled  at  the 
monotonous  task,  until  weeks,  then  months,  slipped  by, 
hardly  noticed,  ignoring  all  social  life.     When  his  mother 


New  Conditions  241 

or  Laura  broached  the  subject,  he  would  say  :  "  *  Sufficient 
unto  the  day  is  the  evil  thereof, '  and  this  must  be  done 
first." 

He  was  not  unmindful  of  his  wife  during  this  interval, 
but  wrote  frequently,  and,  to  guard  against  any  danger  of 
her  being  left  without  resources  should  something  unfore- 
seen befall  him,  he  placed  in  Bishop  Towers's  hands  the 
residue  of  money  remaining  to  him  in  Canada,  for  Cas- 
sandra. He  wrote  her  to  use  it  as  occasion  required,  and 
not  to  spare  it,  that  it  was  hers  without  restriction.  He 
sent  her  the  names  of  books  he  wished  she  would  read  — 
that  she  should  write  the  publishers  for  them.  He  begged 
her  to  do  no  more  weaving  for  money  —  but  only  for  her 
own  amusement,  and  above  all  to  trust  and  be  happy,  not 
to  be  sorrowful  for  this  long  delay,  which  he  would  cut  as 
short  as  he  could. 

Much  of  his  occupation  he  could  not  explain  to  her,  and 
of ttimes  it  was  hard  to  find  matter  for  his  letters ;  then  he 
would  revert  to  reminiscence.  These  were  the  letters  she 
loved  best  and  sometimes  wept  over,  and  these  were  the 
letters  that  often  left  him  dreamy  and  sad,  and  sometimes 
made  him  distraught  when  his  mother  and  Laura  talked 
over  their  affairs,  so  utterly  alien  to  his  thoughts  and  long- 
ings. 

Cassandra's  replies  were  for  the  most  part  short,  but 
they  were  sent  with  unfailing  regularity,  and  always  they 
seemed  to  bring  with  them  a  breath  from  her  own  moun- 
tain top  —  naive  —  tender  —  absolutely  trusting  —  often 
quaintly  worded,  and  telling  of  the  simple,  innocent  things 
of  her  life.  He  could  see  that  she  held  herself  in  reserve, 
even  as  her  nature  was  ;  a  psychologic  something  was  held 
back.  He  could  not  dream  what  it  might  be,  but  reasoned 
with  himself  that  it  was  only  that  she  found  it  harder  to 
unveil  her  thoughts  by  means  of  the  pen  than  in  speech. 

One  day,  as  he  rode  alone  in  the  park,  he  noticed  that  the 
leaf  buds  were  swelling.  What !  Was  spring  upon  them  ? 
A  white  fog  was  lifting,  and  every  twig  and  stem  held  its 
tiny  pearl  of  wetness.  All  the  earth  glistened  and  was 
clean  and  looked  as  if  greenness  was  returning.  He 
regarded  the  artificial  effects  around  him,  the  long  lines  of 
trees  and  set  clumps  of  shrubbery,  and  was  seized  with  a 
desire  well-nigh  irresistible  for  the  wild  roads  and  rugged 


242  The  Mountain  Girl 

steeps  —  the  wandering  streams  and  sound  of  falling 
waters. 

He  saw  it  all  again,  the  blossoming  spring  where  Cas- 
sandra sat  waiting  for  him,  and  he  resolved  to  start  with- 
out delay  —  to  go  to  her  and  bring  her  back  with  him.  All 
this  sordid  calculation  of  the  amount  of  his  fortune  —  his 
mother's  and  sister's  shares  —  the  annuities  of  poor  de- 
pendents —  stocks  to  be  bought  —  interest  to  be  invested 
—  the  government,  and  his  future  part  therein,  pah  !  It 
must  wait !  He  would  have  his  own.  His  heritage  should 
not  be  his  curse. 

He  returned  in  haste  that  day,  only  to  learn  that  certain 
facts  had  been  unearthed  which  necessitated  a  journey 
into  Wales,  where  interests  of  the  former  Lady  Thryng's 
estates^  were  concerned.  His  uncle  had  inherited  all  from 
her  with  the  exception  of  certain  bequests  to  relatives  with 
which  he  had  been  intrusted.  Some  of  the  records  had 
been  lost,  and  whether  the  beneficiaries  were  dead  or  not, 
none  knew,  but  now  and  then  letters  came  pleading  for  a 
continuance  of  former  favors,  and  recalling  obligations. 

Mr.  Stretton  had  been  ill  for  a  week,  and  now  that  the 
records  were  found,  David  must  go,  and  go  at  once.  The 
lawyer  had  many  subjects  for  investigation  to  deliver  to 
David.  There  was  the  death-bed  request  of  an  old  nurse 
of  his  aunt,  who  had  an  annuity,  that  it  be  extended  to 
her  crippled  granddaughter.  She  lived  among  the  Cornish 
hills.  Would  he  hunt  the  family  up  and  learn  if  they  were 
worthy  or  impostors  ?  His  uncle  had  been  endlessly 
plagued  with  such  importunities  —  and  so  on  —  and  so  on. 

Yes,  certainly  David  would  go.  He  made  a  mental 
reservation  that  he  would  sail,  without  returning  to  London, 
and  then  make  a  clean  breast  of  his  affairs  by  letter  to  his 
mother.  She  had  improved  in  health  during  the  winter, 
and  he  thought  his  information  would  be  received  by  her 
with  more  equanimity  than  it  would  have  been  earlier. 
Moreover,  she  had  broached  the  subject  of  marriage  to 
him  more  than  once,  but  always  in  one  of  her  most  worldly 
moods,  when  he  shrank  from  hearing  Cassandra  spoken  of 
as  he  knew  she  would  be  —  when  he  could  not  hear  her 
discussed,  nor  reply  with  calmness  to  such  questions  as  he 
knew  must  ensue. 

David  had  little  time  to  brood  over  his  peculiar  difficulty. 


New  Conditions  243 

as  his  short  journey  was  full  of  business  interest  and  new 
experiences.  Yet  the  Cornish  hills  awoke  in  him  a  still 
greater  eagerness  for  the  mountains  of  his  dreams,  and, 
after  securing  his  passage,  he  went  to  his  hotel  to  prepare 
the  letter  to  his  mother. 

It  is  marvellous  what  trivial  events  alter  destinies.  In 
this  instance  it  was  the  yapping  of  a  small  dog  which 
changed  David's  plans,  and  finally  sent  him  to  South 
Africa  instead  of  America.  While  paying  his  bill  at  the 
hotel,  a  telegram  was  handed  him,  which  he  tore  open  as 
the  clerk  was  counting  out  his  change.  He  still  held  in 
his  hand  the  letter  to  his  mother  which  he  was  on  the  point 
of  dropping  in  the  letter-box  at  his  elbow.  Instead,  he 
thrust  it  in  his  pocket,  along  Avith  the  crushed  telegram, 
and,  taking  a  cab,  hastened  to  the  steamship  offices  to 
cancel  his  date  for  sailing. 

The  message  read:  "Return  with  all  speed  to  London. 
Mr.  Stretton  lying  in  the  hospital  with  a  fractured  skull." 
Thus  it  was  that  Lady  Tredwell's  pet  spaniel,  old  and  vi- 
cious, yapping  at  the  heels  of  Mr.  Stretton's  restive  horse, 
while  my  lady's  maid  —  who  should  have  been  leading 
him  out  for  an  airing  —  was  absorbed  in  listening  to  the 
compliments  of  one  of  the  park  guards,  played  so  dire  a 
part  in  the  affairs  of  David  Thryng. 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

IN    WHICH     THE     OLD     DOCTOR    AND     LITTLE    HOYLE    COME 

BACK   TO   THE   MOUNTAINS 

Cassandra,  seated  on  the  great  hanging  rock  before 
her  cabin,  watched  the  sunrise  where  David  had  so  often 
stood  and  waited  for  the  dawn  during  his  winter  there 
alone.  This  morning  the  mists  obscured  the  valleys  and 
the  base  of  the  mountains,  while  the  sky  and  the  whole 
earth  glowed  with  warm  rose  color. 

Presently  she  rose  and  walked  with  lifted  head  into  the 
cabin,  and  prepared  to  light  a  fire  on  the  hearth.  In  the 
canvas  room  the  bed  was  made  smoothly,  as  she  had  made 
it  the  morning  David  left.  No  one  had  slept  in  it  since, 
although  Cassandra  spent  most  of  her  days  there.  Every- 
thing he  had  used  was  carefully  kept  as  he  had  left  it.  His 
microscope,  covered  from  dust,  stood  with  the  last  speci- 
men still  under  the  lens.  A  book  they  were  reading  to- 
gether lay  on  the  corner  shelf,  with  the  mark  still  in  the 
place  where  they  had  read  last. 

After  lighting  the  fire,  she  sat  near  it,  watching  the 
flames  steal  up  from  the  small  pile  of  fat  pine  chips  under- 
neath, sending  up  red  tongues  of  fire,  until  the  great  logs 
were  wrapped  in  the  hot  embrace  of  the  flames,  trembling, 
quivering,  and  leaping  high  in  their  mad  joy,  transmuting 
all  they  touched. 

"It's  like  love,"  she  murmured,  and  smiled.  "Only  it's 
quicker.  It  does  in  one  hour  what  love  takes  a  lifetime 
to  do.  Those  logs  might  have  lain  on  the  ground  and 
rotted  if  they'd  been  left  alone,  but  now  the  fire  just  holds 
them  and  caresses  them  like,  and  they  grow  warm  and 
glow  like  the  sun,  and  give  all  they  can  while  they  last, 
until  they're  almost  too  bright  to  look  at.  I  reckon  God 
has  been  right  good  to  me  net  to  let  me  lie  and  rot  my  life 
away.  He  sent  David  to  set  my  heart  on  fire,  and  I  guess 
I  can  wait  for  him  to  come  back  to  me  in  God's  own  time.'* 

She  rose  and  brought  from  the  canvas  room  a  basket  of 

244 


Back  to  the  Mountains  245 

willow,  woven  in  open-work  pattern.  It  was  a  gift  from 
Azalea,  who  had  learned  from  her  mother  the  art  of  bas- 
ket weaving.  Some  said  Azalea's  grandmother  was  half 
Indian,  and  that  it  was  from  her  they  had  learned  their 
quaint  patterns  and  shapes,  and  that  she,  and  her  Indian 
mother  before  her,  had  been  famous  basket  weavers. 

This  pretty  basket  was  filled  with  very  delicate  work  of 
fine  muslin,  much  finer  than  anything  Cassandra  had  ever 
worked  upon  before.  Her  hands  no  longer  showed  signs 
of  having  been  employed  in  rough,  coarse  tasks  ;  they  were 
soft  and  white.  She  placed  the  basket  of  dainty  sewing  on 
the  same  table  which  had  served  as  an  altar  when  she  knelt 
beside  David  and  w^as  made  his  wife.  It  was  serving  as  an 
altar  still,  bearing  that  basket  of  delicate  work. 

She  had  become  absorbed  in  a  book  —  not  one  of  those 
David  had  suggested.  It  is  doubtful,  had  he  been  there, 
whether  he  would  have  really  liked  to  see  her  reading  this 
one,  although  it  was  written  by  Thackeray,  dear  to  all 
English  hearts.  It  is  more  than  probable  that  he  would 
have  thought  his  young  wife  hardly  need  be  enlightened 
upon  just  the  sort  of  things  with  which  Vanity  Fair  enriches 
the  understanding. 

Be  it  how  it  may,  Cassandra  was  reading  Vanity  Fair, 
which  she  found  in  the  box  of  books  David  had  opened  so 
long  before.  While  she  read  she  worked  with  her  fingers, 
incessantly,  at  a  piece  of  narrow  lace,  with  a  shuttle  and 
very  fine  thread.  This  she  did  so  mechanically  that  she 
could  easily  read  at  the  same  time  by  propping  the  book 
open  on  the  table  before  her.  For  a  long  time  she  sat 
thus,  growing  more  and  more  interested,  until  the  fire 
burned  low,  and  she  rose  to  replenish  it. 

The  logs  w^ere  piled  beside  the  door  of  the  small  kitchen 
David  had  built  for  her,  and  where  he  had  placed  the  cook 
stove.  She  had  come  up  early  this  morning,  because  she 
was  sad  over  his  last  letter,  in  which  he  had  told  her  of  his 
disappointment  in  having  to  cancel  his  passage  to  America. 
Hopeful  and  cheery  though  the  letter  was,  it  had  struck 
dismay  to  her  heart ;  it  was  her  way  when  sad,  and 
longing  for  her  husband,  to  go  up  to  her  little  cabin  —  her 
own  home  —  and  think  it  all  over  alone  and  thus  regain 
her  equanimity. 

Here  she  read  and  thought  things  out  by  herself.     What 


246  The  Mountain  Girl 

strange  people  they  were  over  there  !  Or  perhaps  that  was 
so  long  ago  —  they  might  have  changed  by  this  time. 
Surely  they  must  have  changed,  or  David  would  have  said 
something  about  it.  He  never  would  become  a  lord,  to 
be  one  of  such  people  —  never  —  never  !  It  was  not  at  all 
li^e  David. 

A  figure  appeared  in  the  doorway.  "Cassandra! 
What  are  you  doing  here  all  by  yourself  "^  " 

It  was  Betty  Towers.  Cassandra  ran  joyfully  forward 
and  clasped  the  little  woman  in  her  arms.  Almost  carrying 
her  in,  she  sat  her  by  the  pleasant  open  fire.  Then,  seeing 
Betty's  eyes  regarding  her  questioningly,  she  suddenly 
dropped  into  her  ovn\  chair  by  the  table,  leaned  her  head 
upon  her  arms,  and  began  to  weep,  silently. 

In  an  instant  Betty  was  kneeling  by  her  side,  holding 
the  lovely  head  to  her  breast.  "Dearest !  You  shan't 
cry.  You  shan't  cry  like  that.  Tell  me  all  about  it. 
Why  on  earth  doesn't  Doctor  Thryng  come  home  ^  " 

Cassandra  lifted  her  head  and  dried  her  tears.  "He 
was  coming.  The  last  letter  but  one  said  he  was  to  sail 
next  day.  Then  last  night  came  another  saying  the  only 
man  who  could  look  after  very  important  business  for 
him  had  been  thrown  from  his  horse  and  hurt  so  bad  he 
may  die,  and  David  had  to  give  up  his  passage  and  go 
back  to  London.  He  may  have  to  go  to  Africa.  He  felt 
right  bad  —  but  — " 

"Goodness  me,  child!  ^Tiy,  he  has  no  business  now 
more  important  than  you  !     What  a  chump  ! " 

Cassandra  stiffened  proudly  and  drew  away,  taking  up 
her  shuttle  and  beginning  her  work  calmly  as  if  nothing 
had  happened  to  destroy  her  composure. 

"I've  not  written  David  —  anything  to  disturb  him  — 
or  make  him  hurry  home." 

"Oh,  Cassandra,  Cassandra!  You're  not  treating 
either  him  or  yourself  fairly." 

"For  him  —  I  can't  help  it;  and  for  me,  I  don't  care. 
Other  women  have  got  along  as  best  they  could  in  these 
mountains,  and  I  can  bear  what  they  have  borne." 

"But  why  on  earth  haven't  you  told  him  V* 

Cassandra  bent  her  head  lower  over  her  bit  of  lace  and 
was  silent.  Betty  drew  her  chair  nearer  and  put  her  arms 
about  the  drooping  girl. 


Back  to  the  Mountains  247 

"Can't  you  tell  me  all  about  it,  dear?'* 

**Not  if  you  are  going  to  blame  David." 

"I  won't,  you  lovely  thing  !  I  can't,  since  he  doesn't 
know  —  but  why  — " 

"At  first  I  couldn't  speak.  I  tried,  but  I  couldn't. 
Then  he  had  to  take  Hoyle  North,  and  I  thought  he  would 
see  for  himself  when  he  came  back  —  or  I  could  tell  him 
by  that  time.  Then  came  that  dreadful  news  —  you 
know  —  four,  all  dead.  His  brother  and  his  two  cousins 
all  killed,  and  his  uncle  dying  of  grief ;  and  he  had  to  go  to 
his  mother  or  she  might  die,  too,  and  then  he  found  so 
much  to  do.     Now,  you  know  he  has  to  be  a — " 

She  was  going  to  say  "a  lord,"  but,  happening  to  glance 
down  at  her  open  book,  the  name  of  "Lord  Steyne" 
caught  her  eye,  and  it  seemed  to  her  a  title  of  disgrace. 
She  must  talk  with  David  before  she  allowed  him  to  be 
known  as  "a  lord,"  so  she  ended  hurriedly  :  "He  has  to  be 
a  different  kind  of  a  man,  now  —  not  a  doctor.  He  has 
a  great  many  things  to  do  and  look  after.  If  I  told  him, 
he  would  leave  everything  and  come  to  me,  even  if  he 
ought  not,  and  if  he  couldn't  come,  he  would  be  troubled 
and  unhappy.  \Miy  should  I  make  him  unhappy  ?  When 
he  does  come  home,  he'll  be  glad  —  oh,  so  glad  !  Why 
need  he  know  when  the  knowing  will  do  no  good,  and  when 
he  will  come  to  me  as  soon  as  he  can,  anyway  ?'' 

"You  strange  girl,  Cassandra  !  You  brave  old  dear  ! 
But  he  must  come,  that's  all.  It  is  his  right  to  know  and 
to  come.     I  can  tell  him.     Let  me." 

"No,  no.  Please,  Mrs.  Towers,  you  must  not.  He  will 
come  back  as  soon  as  he  can ;  and  now  —  now  —  he  will 
be  too  late,  since  he  —  he  did  not  sail  when  he  meant  to." 

Betty  rose  with  a  set  look  about  the  mouth.  "Unless 
we  cable  him,  Cassandra.  Would  there  be  time  in  that 
case  ?     Come,  vou  must  tell  me." 

"No,  no,"  wailed  the  girl.  "And  now  he  must  not 
know  until  he  comes.  It  would  be  cruel.  I  will  not  let 
you  write  him  or  cable  him  either." 

"Then  what  will  you  do  ?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  know.  I'll  think  out  a  way.  You'll 
help  me  think,  but  you  must  promise  me  not  to  write  to 
David.  I  send  him  a  letter  every  day,  but  I  never  tell 
him  anything  that  would  make  him  uneasy,  because  he 


248  The  Mountain  Girl 

has  very  important  business  there  for  his  mother  and 
sister,  even  more  than  for  himself.  You  see  how  bad  I 
would  be  to  write  troubling  things  to  him  when  he 
couldn't  help  me  or  come  to  me. "  A  light  broke  over 
Betty  Towers's  face. 

"I  can  think  out  a  way,  dear,  of  course  I  can.  Just 
leave  matters  to  me." 

Thus  it  was  that  Doctor  Hoyle  received  a  letter  in 
Betty's  own  impassioned  and  impulsive  style,  begging 
him,  for  love's  sake,  to  leave  all  and  come  back  to  the 
mountains  and  his  own  little  cabin,  where  Cassandra 
needed  him. 

"Never  mind  Doctor  Thryng  or  anything  surprising 
about  his  being  absent ;  just  come  if  you  possibly  can  and 
hear  what  Cassandra  has  to  say  about  it  before  you  judge 
him.  She  is  quaint  and  queer  and  wholly  lovely.  If  you 
can  bring  little  Hoyle  with  you,  do  so,  for  I  fear  his  mother 
is  grieving  to  see  him.  She  wrote  me  a  most  peculiar 
and  pathetic  letter,  saying  her  daughter  was  so  silent  about 
her  affairs  that  she  herself  *  war  nigh  about  dead  fer 
worryin',  and  would  I  please  come  and  see  could  I  make 
Cass  talk  a  lee  tie,'  so  you  may  be  sure  there  is  need  of  you. 
The  winter  is  glorious  in  the  mountains  this  year.  Your 
appearance  will  set  everything  right  at  the  Fall  Place, 
and  Cassandra  w^ill  be  safe." 

Old  Time,  the  unfailing,  who  always  marches  apace, 
bringing  with  him  changes  for  good  or  evil,  brought  the 
dear  old  doctor  back  to  the  Fall  Place  —  brought  the  small 
Adam  Hoyle,  with  his  queer  little  twisted  neck  and 
hunched  back,  drawn  by  harness  and  plaster  into  a  much 
improved  condition,  although  not  straight  yet  —  brought 
many  letters  from  David  filled  with  postponements  and 
regrets  therefor  —  and  brought  also  a  little  son  for  Cas- 
sandra to  hold  to  her  bosom  and  dream  and  pray  over. 

And  the  dreams  and  the  prayers  travelled  far — far,  to 
the  sunny-haired  Englishman  wrapped  in  the  intricate 
affairs  of  a  great  estate.  How  much  money  would  accrue  ? 
How  should  it  be  spent  ?  "WTiat  improvements  should  be 
made  in  their  country  home  ?  WTien  Laura's  coming 
out  should  be  ?  How  many  of  her  old  companions  might 
she  retain  ?    How  many  might  she  call  friends  ?     How 


Back  to  the  Mountains  249 

many  were  to  be  hereafter  thrust  out  as  quite  impossible  ? 
Should  she  be  allowed  a  kennel,  or  should  her  sporting 
tendencies  be  discouraged  ? 

All  these  things  were  forced  upon  David's  consideration ; 
how  then  could  he  return  to  his  young  wife,  especially 
when  he  could  not  yet  bring  himself  to  say  to  his  world 
that  he  had  a  young  wife.  Impatient  he  might  be,  nervous, 
and  even  irritable,  but  still  what  could  he  do  ?  While 
there  in  the  far-away  hills  sat  Cassandra,  loving  him, 
brooding  over  him  with  serene  and  peaceful  longing,  hold- 
ing his  baby  to  her  white  breast,  holding  his  baby's  hand  to 
her  lips,  full  of  courage,  strong  in  her  faith,  patient  in 
spirit,  until  as  days  and  weeks  passed  she  grew  well  and 
strong  in  body. 

Being  sadly  in  need  of  rest,  the  old  doctor  lingered  on 
in  the  mountains  until  spring  was  well  adv^anced.  Slight 
of  body,  but  vigorous  and  wiry,  and  as  full  of  scientific 
enthusiasm  as  when  he  was  thirty  years  younger,  he 
tramped  the  hills,  taking  long  walks  and  climbs  alone,  or 
shorter  ones  w4th  Hoyle  at  his  heels  like  a  devoted  dog, 
shrilling  questions  as  he  ran  to  keep  up.  These  the  good 
doctor  answered  according  to  his  own  code,  or  passed 
over  as  beyond  possibility  of  reply  with  quizzical  counter- 
questioning. 

They  sat  together  one  day,  eating  their  luncheon  in  the 
shelter  of  a  great  wall  of  rock,  and  below  them  lay  a  pool 
of  clear  water  which  trickled  from  a  spring  higher  up. 
Now  and  then  a  bullfrog  would  sound  his  deep  bass  note, 
and  all  the  time  the  high  piping  of  the  peepers  made 
shrill  accompaniment  to  their  voices  as  they  conversed. 

The  doctor  had  made  an  aquarium  for  Hoj^e,  using  a 
great  glass  jar  which  he  obtained  from  a  druggist  in  Faring- 
ton.  They  had  come  to-day  on  a  quest  for  snails  to  eat 
the  green  growth,  which  had  so  covered  the  sides  of  the 
jar  as  to  hide  the  interesting  water  world  within  from  the 
boy's  eyes.  Many  things  had  already  occurred  in  that 
small  world  to  set  the  boy  thinking. 

"Doctah  Hoyle,  you  remembeh  that  thar  quare  bunch 
of  leetle  sticks  an'  stones  you  put  in  my  'quar'um  first  day 
you  fixed  hit  up  fer  me  ?  " 

"Yes,  yes." 

"Well,  the'  is  a  right  quare  thing  with  a  big  hade  come 


250  The  Mountain  Girl 

outen  hit,  an'  he  done  eat  up  some  o'  the  lectle  black  bugs. 
I  seed  him  jump  quicker'n  Hghtnin'  at  that  leetHst  fish 
only  so  long,  an'  try  to  bite  a  piece  outen  his  fin  —  his 
lowest  fin.     What  did  he  do  that  fer.^^" 

"Why  —  why  —  he  was  hungry.  He  made  his  dinner 
off  the  little  black  bugs,  and  he  wanted  the  fin  for  his 
dessert." 

"I  don't  like  that  kind  of  a  beast.  Oncet  he  was  a 
worm  in  a  kind  of  a  hole-box,  an'  then  he  turned  into  a 
leetle  beast-crittah ;    an'  what'll  he  be  next  ?  " 

"Next  —  why,  next  he'll  be  a  fly  —  a  —  a  beautiful  fly 
with  four  wings  all  blue  and  gold  and  green  — " 

*'I  seen  them  things  flyin'  round  in  the  summeh.  Hit's 
quare  how  things  gits  therselves  changed  that-a-way  into 
somethin'  else  —  from  a  w^orm  into  that  beast-crittah 
an'  then  into  one  o'  these  here  devil  flies.  You  reckon 
hit '11  eveh  git  changed  into  something  diff 'ent  —  some 
kind  er  a  bird  ?  " 

"A  bird  .f^  No,  no.  Wlien  he  becomes  af  —  fly,  he's 
finished  and  done  for." 

"P'r'aps  ther  is  some  folks  that-a-way,  too.  You 
reckon  that's  what  ails  me  ?" 

"You  ?     Why,  —  why  what  ails  you  ?  " 

"You  reckon  p'r'aps  I  mount  git  changed  some  way 
outen  this  here  quare  back  I  got,  so't  I  can  hoi'  my  hade 
like  otheh  folks  ?  Jes'  go  to  sleep  like,  an'  wake  up  straight 
likeFrale.?" 

The  old  doctor  turned  and  looked  down  a  moment  on 
the  child  sitting  hunched  at  his  side.  His  mouth  w^orked 
as  he  meditated  a  reply. 

"What  would  you  do  if  you  could  c — arry  your  head 
straight  like  Frale  ?  If  you  had  been  like  him,  you  would 
be  running  a  *  still'  pretty  soon.  You  never  would  have 
come  to  me  to  set  you  straight,  and  so  you  would  n — never 
have  seen  all  the  pictures  and  the  great  cities.  You  are 
going  to  be  a  man  before  you  know  it,  and  — " 

"And  I'll  do  a  heap  o'  things  when  I'm  a  man,  too  — 
but  I  wisht  —  I  wisht  —  These  here  snails  we  b'en 
hunt'n',  you  reckon  they're  done  growed  to  ther  shells  so 
they  can't  get  out  ?  What  did  God  make  'em  that-a-way 
fer?" 

It's  all  in  the  order  of  things.     Everything  has  its 


a ' 


Back  to  the  Mountains  ^51 

place  in  the  world  and  its  work  to  do.  They  don't  want 
to  get  out.  They  like  to  carry  their  bones  on  the  out- 
side of  their  bodies.  They're  made  so.  Yes,  yes,  all 
in  the  order  of  things.     They  like  it." 

"You  reckon  you  can  tell  me  hu'  come  God  'lowed  me 
to  have  this-er  lump  on  my  back  ?  Hit  hain't  in  no  ordeh 
o'  things  fer  humans  to  be  like  I  be." 

The  sceptical  old  man  looked  down  on  the  child  quiz- 
zically, yet  sadly.  His  flexible  mouth  twitched  to  reply, 
but  he  was  silent.  Hoyle  looked  back  into  the  old  doctor's 
eyes  with  grave,  direct  gaze,  and  turned  away.  "You 
reckon  why  he  done  hit  ?  " 

"See  here.  Suppose  —  just  suppose  you  were  given 
your  choice  this  minute  to  change  places  with  Frale  — 
Lord  knows  where  he  is  now,  or  what  he's  doing  —  or  be 
as  you  are  and  live  your  own  life ;  which  would  you  be  ? 
Think  it  over ;  think  it  out." 

"Ef  I  had  'a'  been  straight,  brother  David  never  would 
'a'  took  me  up  to  you  ?" 

"  No  —  no  —  no.     You  would  have  been  a  —  " 

"You  mean  if  a  magic  man  should  come  by  here  an'  just 
touch  me  so,  an'  change  me  into  Frale,  would  I  'low  him 
to  do  hit?" 

"That's  what  I  mean." 

"I  don't  guess  Frale,  he'd  like  to  be  done  that-a-way." 
The  loving  little  chap  nestled  closer  to  the  doctor's  side. 
"I  like  you  a  heap,  Doctah  Hoyle.  Frale,  he  fit  brothah 
David  —  an'  nigh  about  killed  him.  I  reckon  I  rutheh 
be  like  I  be,  an'  bide  nigh  Cass  an'  th'  baby  —  an'  have  the 
'quar'um  —  an'  see  maw  —  an'  go  with  you.  You  reckon 
I  can  go  back  with  you  ?  " 

"Go  back  ?     Of  course  —  go  back." 

"Be  I  heap  o'  trouble  to  you  ?  You  reckon  God  'lowed 
me  to  have  this  er  hump,  so't  I  could  get  to  go  an'  bide 
whar  you  were  at,  like  I  done  ?  " 

A  suspicious  moisture  gathered  in  the  doctor's  eyes, 
and  he  sprang  up  and  went  to  examine  earnestly  a  thorny 
shrub  some  paces  away,  while  the  child  continued  to  pipe 
his  questions,  for  the  most  part  unanswerable.  "You 
reckon  God  just  gin  my  neck  er  twist  so't  brothah  David 
would  take  me  to  Canada  to  you,  an'  so't  maw'd  'low 
me  to  go  ?    You  reckon  if  I'm  right  good,  He'll  'low  me 


252  The  Mountain  Girl 

to  make  a  picture  o'  th'  ocean  some  day,  like  the  one  we 
seed  in  that  big  house  ?  You  reckon  if  I  tried  right  hard 
I  could  paint  a  picture  o'  th'  mountain,  yandah  —  an' 
th*  sea  —  an'  —  all  the  —  all  the  —  ships  ?  " 

The  doctor  laughed  heartily  and  merrily.  "Come, 
come.  We  must  go  home  now  to  Cassandra  and  the  baby. 
Paint  ?  Of  —  of  course  you  could  paint !  You  could  paint 
p — pictures  enough  to  fill  a  house." 

"We  don't  want  no  magic  man,  do  we,  Doctah  Hoyle? 
I  cried  a  heap  after  I  seed  myself  in  the  big  lookin'- 
glass  down  in  Farington  whar  brothah  David  took  me. 
I  cried  when  hit  war  dark  an'  maw  war  sleepin'.  Next 
time  I  reckon  I  bettah  tell  God  much  obleeged  fer  twistin' 
my  hade  'roun'  'stead  er  cry  in'  an'  takin'  on  like  I  been 
doin'.     You  reckon  so,  Doctah  Hoyle?" 

"Yes  —  yes  —  yes.  I  reckon  so,"  said  the  doctor,  medi- 
tatively, as  they  descended  the  trail.  From  that  day  the 
child's  strength  increased.  Sunny  and  buoyant,  he  shook 
off  the  thought  of  his  deformity,  and  his  beauty-loving 
soul  ceased  introspective  brooding  and  found  delight  in 
searching  out  beauty,  and  in  his  creative  faculty. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 

IN  WHICH   FRALE  RETURNS  TO   THE  MOUNTAINS 

Doctor  Hoyle  lingered  until  the  last  of  the  laurel  bloom 
was  gone,  and  the  widow  had  become  so  absorbed  in  her 
grandchild  as  to  make  the  parting  much  easier.  Then 
he  took  the  small  Adam  and  departed  for  the  North. 
Never  did  the  kind  old  man  dream  that  his  frail  and  twisted 
little  namesake  would  one  day  be  the  pride  of  his  life  and 
the  comfort  of  his  declining  years. 

'*  Hoyle  sure  do  look  a  heap  bettah'n  when  Doctah 
David  took  him  off  that  day.  Hit  did  seem  like  I'd  nevah 
see  him  again.  Don't  you  guess  'at  he's  beginnin'  to  grow 
some  ?     Seems  like  he  do." 

The  widow  was  seated  on  her  little  porch  with  the 
doctor,  the  evening  before  they  left,  and  Cassandra,  who, 
since  the  birth  of  the  heir,  had  been  living  again  in  her  own 
little  cabin,  had  brought  the  baby  down.  He  lay  on  his 
grandmother's  lap  quietly  sleeping,  while  his  mother 
gathered  Hoyle's  treasures,  and  packed  his  diminutive 
trunk.  The  boy  foUow^ed  her,  chattering  happily  as  she 
worked.  She  also  had  noticed  the  change  in  him,  and 
suggested  that  perhaps,  as  he  had  gained  such  a  start 
toward  health,  he  need  not  return,  but  would  do  quite  well 
at  home. 

"He's  a  care  to  you.  Doctor,  although  you're  that  kind 
and  patient,  —  I  don't  see  how  ever  we  can  thank  you 
enough  for  all  you've  done  !"  Then  Hoyle,  to  their  utter 
astonishment,  threw  himself  on  the  ground  at  the  doctor's 
feet  and  burst  into  bitter  weeping. 

"Why,  son,  are  ye  cryin'  that-a-way  so's  you  can  get 
to  go  off  an'  leave  maw  here  'lone  ?  "  But  he  continued  to 
weep,  and  at  last  explained  to  them  that  the  "Lord  done 
crooked  him  up  that-a-way  so't  he  could  git  to  go  an'  learn 
to  be  a  painter  an'  make  a  house  full  of  pictures,"  and  that 

253 


254  The  Mountain  Girl 

the  doctor  had  said  he  might.  Doctor  Hoyle  lifted  him 
to  his  knees  with  many  assurances  that  he  would  keep  his 
word,  but  for  a  long  time  the  child  sobbed  hysterically, 
his  face  pressed  against  the  old  man's  sleeve. 

"What's  that  you  sayin',  child,  'bouts  the  Lord  twistin' 
yer  neck  ?  Bettah  lay  sech  as  that  to  the  devil,  more'n 
likely." 

x\t  the  mention  of  that  sinister  individual,  the  babe 
wakened  and  stretched  out  his  plump,  bare  arms,  with  little 
pink  fists  tightly  closed.  He  yawned  a  prodigious  yawn 
for  so  small  a  countenance,  and  gazed  vacantly  in  his 
grandmother's  face.  Then  a  look  of  intelligence  crept 
into  his  eyes,  and  he  smiled  one  of  those  sweet,  evanescent 
smiles  of  infancy. 

"Look  at  him  now,  laughin'  at  me  that-a-way.  He 
be  the  peartest  I  eveh  did  see.  Cass,  she  sure  be  mean 
not  to  tell  his  fathah  'at  he  have  a  son,  she  sure  be." 

Cassandra  came  and  tenderly  took  the  babe  in  her  arms 
and  held  him  to  her  breast.  "There,  there.  Sleep, 
honey  son,  sleep  again,"  she  cooed,  swaying  her  body  to 
the  rhythm  of  her  speech.    "Sleep,  honey  son,  sleep  again." 

"Don't  you  reckon  she  be  mean  to  Doctah  David, 
nevah  to  let  on  'at  he  have  a  son,  and  he  a-growin'  that 
fast  ?  You  a-doin'  his  fathah  mean,  Cassandry."  Still 
Cassandra  swayed  and  sang. 

"Sleep,  honey  son,  sleep  again." 

"He  nevah  will  forgive  you  when  he  finds  out  how  you 
have  done  him.  I  can't  make  out  what-all  ails  ye,  no- 
how." 

"Hush,  mother.  I'm  just  leaving  his  heart  in  peace. 
He'll  come  when  he  can,  and  then  he'll  forgive  me."  . 

As  the  doctor  walked  slowly  at  her  side  that  evening, 
carrying  the  sleeping  child  back  to  her  cabin,  he  also  ven- 
tured a  remonstrance,  but  without  avail. 

"It's  hardly  fair  to  his  father  —  such  a  fine  little  chap. 
You — you  have  a  monopoly  of  him  this  way,  you  know." 

She  flushed  at  the  implication  of  selfishness,  but  said 
nothing. 

"How  —  how  is  that?  Don't  you  think  so?"  he  per- 
sisted kindly. 

"I  reckon  you  can't  feel  what  I  feel,  Doctor.  Why 
should  I  make  his  heart  troubled  when  he  must  stay  there  ? 


Frale  again  Returns  255 

David  knows  I  hate  it  to  bide  so  long  without  him.  He  — ■ 
he  knows.  If  he  could  get  to  come  back,  don't  you  guess 
he'd  come  right  quick,  anyway  ?  Would  he  come  any 
sooner  for  his  son  than  for  me.'^"  It  was  the  doctor's 
turn  for  silence.  She  asked  again,  this  time  with  a  tremor 
in  her  voice.     "You  reckon  he  would,  Doctor?" 

"No  !      Of  —  of  course  not,"  he  cried. 

"Then  what  would  be  the  use  of  telling  him,  only  to 
trouble  him  .^" 

"He  —  he  might  like  to  think  about  him  —  you  know 

—  might  like  it." 

"He  said  he  must  go  to  Africa  in  May,  so  now  he  must 
have  started  —  and  our  wedding  was  on  May-day.  Now 
it's  the  last  of  May ;  he  must  be  there.  He  might  be 
obliged  to  bide  in  that  country  a  whole  month  —  maybe 
two.  It's  so  far  away,  and  his  letters  take  so  long  to  come  ! 
Doctor,  are  they  fighting  there  now  ?  Sometimes  I  wake 
in  the  night  and  think  what  if  he  should  die  away  off  there 
in  that  far  place  — " 

"No,  no.  That's  done.  Not  fighting,  thank  God. 
Rest  your  heart  in  peace.  Now,  after  I'm  gone,  don't  stay 
up  here  alone  too  much.  I'm  a  physician,  and  I  know 
what's  best  for  you." 

She  took  the  now  soundly  sleeping  child  from  the 
doctor's  arms  and  laid  him  on  the  bed  in  the  canvas  room. 
The  day  had  been  warm,  and  the  fire  was  out  in  the  great 
fireplace;  the  evening  wind,  light  and  cool,  laden  with 
sweet  odors,  swept  through  the  cabin. 

They  talked  late  that  night  of  Hoyle  and  his  future,  but 
never  a  word  more  of  David,  The  old  man  thought  he 
now  understood  her  feeling,  and  respected  it.  She  cer- 
tainly had  a  right  to  one  small  weakness,  this  strong  fair 
creature  of  the  hills.  Her  husband  must  release  himself 
from  his  absorbing  cares  and  return  simply  for  love  of  her 

—  not  at  the  call  of  his  baby's  wail. 

So  the  doctor  and  his  diminutive  namesake  drove  con- 
tentedly away  next  morning  in  the  great  covered  wagon, 
and  Cassandra,  standing  by  her  mother's  door,  smiled  and 
lifted  her  baby  for  one  last  embrace  from  his  loving  little 
uncle. 

"I'm  goin'  to  grow  a  big  man,  an'  I'll  teach  him  to  make 
pictures  —  big  ones,"  he  called  back. 


^56  The  Mountain  Girl 

"Yas,  you'll  do  a  heap.  You  bettah  watch  out  to  be 
right  good  and  peart ;  that's  what  you  bettah  do." 

David,  not  unmindful  of  affairs  on  the  far-away  moun- 
tain side,  made  it  quite  worth  the  while  of  the  two  cousins 
to  stay  on  with  the  widow  and  run  the  small  farm  under 
Cassandra's  directions,  and  she  found  herself  fully  occu- 
pied. She  wrote  David  all  the  details :  when  and  where 
things  were  planted  —  how  the  vines  he  had  set  on  the 
hill  slope  were  growing  —  how  the  pink  rose  he  had  brought 
from  Hoke  Belew's  and  planted  by  their  threshold  had 
grown  to  the  top  of  the  door,  and  had  three  sweet  blossoms. 
She  had  shaken  the  petals  of  one  between  the  pages  of  her 
letter  on  May-day,  and  sent  it  to  remind  him,  she  said. 

Nearly  a  month  later  than  he  had  intended  to  sail, 
David  left  England,  overwhelmed  with  many  small  matters 
which  seemed  so  great  to  his  mother  and  sister,  and  bur- 
dened with  duties  imposed  upon  him  by  the  realization 
that  he  had  come  into  the  possession  of  enormous  wealth, 
more  than  he  could  comprehendingly  estimate;  and  that 
he  was  now  setting  out  to  secure  and  prevent  the  loss  of 
possibly  double  what  he  already  possessed. 

People  gathered  about  him  and  presented  him  with 
worthy  and  unworthy  opportunities  for  its  disposal. 
They  flocked  to  him  in  herds,  with  importunities  and 
flatteries.  The  tower  which  he  had  built  up  with  his 
ideals,  and  in  which  he  had  intrenched  himself,  was  in 
danger  of  being  undermined  and  toppled  into  ruins,  bury- 
ing his  soul  beneath  the  debris.  When  seated  on  the  deck, 
the  rose  petals  dropped  into  his  hand  as  he  tore  open 
Cassandra's  letter.  Some,  ere  he  could  catch  them,  were 
caught  up  and  blown  away  into  the  sea. 

He  held  them  and  inhaled  their  sweetness,  and  every- 
thing seemed  to  find  its  true  value  and  proportion  and  to 
fall  into  its  right  place.  Again  on  the  mountain  top,  with 
Cassandra  at  his  side,  he  viewed  in  a  perspective  of  varying 
gradations  his  life,  his  aims,  and  his  possessions. 

The  personality  of  his  young  wife,  of  late  a  vague  thing 
to  him,  distant  and  fair,  and  haloed  about  with  sweet 
memories  dimly  discerned  like  a  dream  that  is  past,  pre- 
sented itself  to  him  all  at  once  vivid  and  clear,  as  if  he  held 
her  in  his  arms  with  her  head  on  his  breast. 


Frale  again  Returns  257 

He  heard  again  her  voice  with  its  quaint  inflections  and 
lingering  tones.  Their  love  for  each  other  loomed  large, 
and  became  for  him  at  once  the  one  truly  vital  thing  in  all 
his  share  of  the  universe.  Had  his  body  been  endowed 
with  the  wings  of  his  soul,  he  would  have  left  all  and  gone 
to  her ;  but,  alas  for  the  restrictions  of  matter  !  he  was 
gliding  rapidly  away  and  away,  farther  from  the  immediate 
attainment.  Yet  was  his  tower  strengthened  wherein  he 
had  intrenched  himself  with  his  ideals.  The  withered  rose 
petals  had  brought  him  exaltation  of  purpose. 

In  the  mountains,  July  came  with  unusually  sultry  heat, 
yet  the  rich  pocket  of  soil,  watered  by  its  never  failing 
stream,  suffered  little  from  the  drought.  AVeeds  grew 
apace,  and  Cassandra  had  much  ado  to  hold  her  cousin 
Cotton  Caswell,  easy-going  and  thriftless,  to  his  task  of 
keeping  the  small  farm  in  order. 

For  a  long  time  now,  Cassandra  had  avoided  those 
moments  of  far-seeing  and  brooding.  Had  not  David  said 
he  feared  them  for  her  ?  In  these  days  of  waiting,  she 
dreaded  lest  they  show  her  something  to  which  she  would 
rather  remain  blind.  In  the  evenings,  looking  over  the 
hilltops  from  her  rock,  visions  came  to  her  out  of  the 
changing  mists,  but  she  put  them  from  her  and  calmed  her 
breast  with  the  babe  on  her  bosom,  and  solaced  her  long- 
ing by  keeping  all  in  readiness  for  David's  return.  Per- 
haps at  any  moment,  with  wind-lifted  hair  and  buoyant 
smile,  he  might  come  up  the  laurel  path. 

For  this  reason  she  preferred  living  in  her  own  cabin 
home,  and,  that  she  might  not  be  alone  at  night,  Martha 
Caswell  or  her  brother  slept  on  a  cot  in  the  large  cabin 
room,  but  Cassandra  cared  little  for  their  company. 
They  might  come  or  not  as  they  chose.  She  was  never 
afraid  now  that  she  was  strong  again  and  baby  was  well. 

One  evening  sitting  thus,  her  babe  lying  asleep  on  her 
knees  and  her  heart  over  the  sea,  something  caused  her 
to  start  from  her  revery  and  look  away  from  the  blue  dis- 
tance, toward  the  cabin.  There,  a  few  paces  away, 
regarding  her  intently,  stalwart  and  dark,  handsome  and 
eager,  stood  Frale.  Much  older  he  seemed,  more  reckless 
he  appeared,  yet  still  a  youth  in  his  undisciplined  impulse. 
She  sat  pale  as  death,  unable  to  move,  in  breathless  amaze- 
ment. 


258  The  Mountain  Girl 

He  smiled  upon  her  out  of  the  gathering  dusk.  For 
some  minutes  he  had  been  regarding  her,  and  the  tumult 
within  him  had  become  riotous  with  long  restraint.  He 
came  swiftly  forward  and,  ere  she  could  turn  her  head, 
his  arms  were  about  her,  and  his  lips  upon  hers,  and  she  felt 
herself  pinioned  in  her  chair — nor,  for  guarding  her  baby 
unhurt  by  his  vehemence,  could  she  use  her  hands  to  hold 
him  from  her ;  nor  for  the  suffocating  beating  of  her  heart 
could  she  cry  out ;  neither  would  her  cry  have  availed,  for 
there  were  none  near  to  hear  her. 

"Stop,  Frale !  I  am  not  yours;  stop,  Frale,"  she 
implored. 

'*Yas,  you  are  mine,"  he  said,  in  his  low  drawl,  lifting 
his  head  to  gaze  in  her  face.  "You  gin  me  your  promise. 
That  doctah  man,  he  done  gone  an'  lef  you  all  alone,  and 
he  ain't  nevah  goin'  to  come  back  to  these  here  mountins." 

She  snatched  her  hands  from  the  child  on  her  knees,  and, 
with  sudden  movement,  pushed  him  violently ;  but  he  only 
held  her  closer,  and  it  was  as  if  she  struggled  against  mus- 
cles of  iron. 

"Naw,  you  don't !  I  have  you  now,  an'  I  won't  nevah 
leave  you  go  again."  He  had  not  been  drinking,  yet  he 
was  like  one  drunken,  so  long  had  he  brooded  and  waited. 

Rapidly  she  tried  to  think  how  she  might  gain  control 
over  him,  when,  wakened  by  the  struggle,  the  babe  wailed 
out  and  he  started  to  his  feet,  his  hands  clutching  into  his 
hair  as  if  he  were  struck  with  sudden  fear.  He  had  not 
noticed  or  given  heed  to  what  lay  upon  her  knees,  and  the 
cry  penetrated  his  heart  like  a  knife. 

A  child  !  His  child  —  that  doctor's  child  ?  He  hated 
the  thought  of  it,  and  the  old  impulse  to  strike  down  any- 
thing or  any  creature  that  stood  in  his  way  seized  him  — 
the  impulse  that,  unchecked,  had  made  him  a  murderer. 
He  could  kill,  kill  !  Cassandra  gathered  the  little  body 
to  her  heart  and,  standing  still  before  him,  looked  into  his 
eyes.  Instinctively  she  knew  that  only  calmness  and 
faith  in  his  right  action  would  give  her  the  mastery  now, 
and  with  a  prayer  in  her  heart  she  spoke  quietly. 

"How  came  you  here,  Frale  ?  You  wrote  mother  you'd 
gone  to  Texas."  His  figure  relaxed,  and  his  arms  dropped, 
but  still  he  bent  forward  and  gazed  eagerly  into  her 
eyes. 


Frale  again  Returns  259 

"I  come  back  when  I  heered  he  war  gone.  I  come  back 
right  soon.  Gate  Irwin's  wife  writ  me  'at  he  war  gone ; 
an'  now  she  done  tol'  me  he  ain't  nevah  goin'  to  come  back 
to  these  here  mountins.  Ev'ybody  on  the  mountins 
knows  that.  He  jes'  have  fooled  you-all  that-a-way, 
makin'  out  to  marry  you  whilst  he  w^ar  in  bed,  like  he 
couldn'  stand  on  his  feet,  an'  then  gittin'  up  an'  goin'  off 
this-a-way,  an'  bidin'  nigh  on  to  a  year.  We  don't  'low 
our  women  to  be  done  that-a-way,  like  they  war  pore 
white  trash.  I  come  back  fer  you  like  I  promised,  an' 
you  done  gin  me  your  promise,  too.  I  reckon  you  w^on't 
go  back  on  that  now."  He  stepped  nearer,  and  she  clasped 
the  babe  closer,  but  did  not  flinch. 

"Yes,  Frale,  you  promised,  and  I  —  I  —  promised  — 
to  save  you  from  yourself  —  to  be  a  good  man ;  but  you 
broke  yours.  You  didn't  repent,  and  you  went  on  drink- 
ing, and  —  then  you  tried  to  kill  an  innocent  man  when 
he  was  alone  and  unarmed;  like  a  coward  you  shot  him. 
I  called  back  my  words  from  God;  I  gave  them  to  the 
man  I  loved  —  promise  for  promise,  Frale." 

"Yas,  and  curse  for  curse.  You  cursed  me,  Gass." 
He  made  one  more  step  forward,  but  she  stood  her  ground 
and  lifted  one  hand  above  her  head,  the  gesture  he  so  well 
remembered. 

"Keep  back,  Frale.  I  did  not  curse  you.  I  let  you  go 
free,  and  no  one  followed  you.  Go  l^ack  —  farther  — 
farther  —  or  I  will  do  it  now —  Oh,  God — "  He 
cowered,  his  arm  before  his  eyes,  and  moved  backward. 

"Don't,  Gass,"  he  cried.  For  a  moment  she  stood 
regally  before  him,  her  babe  resting  easily  in  the  hollow 
of  her  arm.  Then  she  slowly  lowered  her  hand  and  spoke 
again,  in  quiet,  distinct  tones. 

"Now,  for  that  lie  they  have  told  you,  I  am  going  to 
my  husband.  I  start  to-morrow.  He  has  sent  me  money 
to  come  to  him.  You  tell  that  word  all  up  and  down  the 
mountain  side,  wherever  there  bides  one  to  hear." 

She  lifted  her  baby,  pressing  his  little  face  to  her  cheek, 
and  turning,  walked  slowly  toward  her  cabin  door. 

"Gass,"  he  called. 

She  paused.     "  Well,  Frale  ?  " 
Gass,  you  hev  cursed  me." 
'No,  Frale,  it  is  the  curse  of  Cain  that  rests  on  your 


260  The  Mountain  Girl 

soul.    You  brought  it  on  you  by  your  own  hand.     If 
you  will  live  right  and  repent,  Christ  will  take  it  off." 

"Will  you  ask  him  for  me,  Cass  ?  I  sure  hev  lost  you 
now  —  forever,  Cass  ! " 

"Yes,  Frale.  I'll  ask  him  to  cover  up  all  this  year  out 
of  your  life.  It  has  been  full  of  mad  badness.  Be  like 
you  used  to  be,  Frale,  and  leave  off  thinking  on  me  this 
way.  It  is  sin.  Go  marry  somebody  who  can  love  you 
and  care  for  you  like  you  need,  and  come  back  here  and 
do  for  mother  like  you  used  to.  Giles  Teasley  can't 
pester  you.  He's  half  dead  with  his  badness  —  drinking 
his  own  liquor." 

She  came  to  him,  and,  taking  his  hand,  led  him  toward 
the  laurel  path.  "Go  down  to  mother  now,  Frale,  and 
have  supper  and  sleep  in  your  own  bed,  like  no  evil  had 
ever  come  into  your  heart,"  she  pleaded.  "The  good  is 
in  you,  Frale.  God  sees  it,  and  I  see  it.  Heed  to  me, 
Frale.     Good-night." 

Slowly,  with  bent  head,  he  walked  away. 

Trembling,  Cassandra  laid  her  baby  in  the  cradle  Hoke 
Belew  had  made  her,  and,  kneeling  beside  the  rude  little 
bed,  she  bowed  her  head  over  it  and  wept  scalding,  bitter 
tears.  She  felt  herself  shamed  before  the  whole  mountain 
side.  Oh,  why  —  why  need  David  have  left  her  so  long 
—  so  long  !  The  first  reproach  against  him  entered  her 
heart,  and  at  the  same  time  she  reasoned  with  herself. 

He  could  not  help  it  —  surely  he  could  not.  He  was 
good  and  true,  and  they  should  all  know  it  if  she  had  to 
lie  for  it.  When  she  had  sobbed  herself  into  a  measure 
of  calmness,  she  heard  a  step  cross  the  cabin  floor.  Quickly 
drying  her  tears,  she  rose  and  stood  in  the  doorway  of 
the  canvas  room,  with  dilated  eyes  and  indrawn  breath, 
peering  into  the  dusk,  barring  the  way.  It  was  only  her 
mother. 

Why,  mothah  !"  she  cried,  relieved  and  overjoyed. 
Have  you  seen  Frale  ?" 

Yes,  mothah.     He  was  here.     Sit  down  and  get  your 
breath.     You  have  climbed  too  fast." 

Her  mother  dropped  into  a  chair  and  placed  a  small 
bundle  on  the  table  at  her  side. 

"What-all  is  this  Frale  say  you  have  told  him.?  Have 
David  writ  fer  you  like  Frale  say  ?    W^hat-all  have  Frale 


if 


Frale  again  Returns  261 

been  up  to  now  ?  He  come  down  creepin'  like  he  a  half- 
dade  man  —  that  soft  an'  quiet." 

"I'm  going  to  David,  mother.  You  know  he  sent  me 
money  to  use  any  w^ay  I  choose,  and  I'm  going."  She 
caught  her  breath  and  faltered. 

The  mother  rose  and  took  her  in  her  arms,  and,  drawing 
her  head  down  to  her  wrinkled  cheek,  patted  her  softly. 

"Thar,  honey,  thar.  I  reckon  your  ol'  maw  knows  a 
heap  more'n  you  think.  You  keep  mighty  still,  but  you 
can't  fool  her." 

Cassandra  drew  herself  together.  "Why  didn't  Martha 
come  up  this  evening  ^  " 

"She  war  makin'  ready,  in  her  triflin'  slow  way,  an' 
then  Frale  come  down  an'  said  that  word,  an'  I  knew  right 
quick  'at  ther  war  somethin'  behind  —  his  way  war  that 
quare  —  so  I  told  Marthy  to  set  him  out  a  good  suppah, 
an'  I'd  stop  up  here  myself  this  night.  She  war  right  glad 
to  do  hit.  Fool,  she  be  !  I  could  see  how  she  went  plumb 
silly  ovah  Frale  all  to  onc't." 

"Mothah,  you  know  right  well  what  they're  saying  about 
David  and  me.  Is  it  true,  that  word  Frale  said,  that 
everyone  says  he  nevah  will  come  back.^^"  The  mother 
was  silent.  "That's  all  right,  mothah.  We'll  pack  up 
to-night,  and  I'll  go  down  to  Farington  to-morrow.  Mrs. 
Towahs  will  help  me  to  start  right." 

She  lighted  candles  and  began  to  lay  out  her  baby's 
wardrobe.  "I  haven't  anything  to  put  these  in,  but  I  can 
carry  everything  I  need  down  there  in  baskets,  and  she 
will  help  me.  They've  always  been  that  good  to  me  — 
all  my  life." 

"Cass,  Cass,  don't  go,"  wailed  her  mother.  "I'm 
afraid  somethin'll  happen  you  if  you  go  that  far  away.  If 
you  could  leave  baby  with  me,  Cass  !  Give  hit  up.  Be  ye 
'feared  o'  Frale,  honey  ? " 

"No,  mother,  the  man  doesn't  live  that  I'm  afraid  of." 
She  paused,  holding  the  candle  in  her  hand,  lighting  her 
face  that  shone  whitely  out  of  the  darkness.  Her  eyes 
glowed,  and  she  held  her  head  high.  Then  she  turned 
again  to  her  work,  gathering  her  few  small  treasures  and 
placing  them  on  one  of  the  highest  shelves  of  the  chimney 
cupboard.  As  she  worked,  she  tried  to  say  comforting 
things  to  her  mother. 


262  The  Mountain  Girl 


a  ■ 


I'll  write  to  you  every  day,  like  David  does  me,  mother. 
See  ?  I've  kept  all  his  letters.  They're  in  this  box. 
I  don't  want  to  burn  them  because  I  love  them ;  and 
I  don't  want  any  one  else  to  read  them ;  and  I  don't  want 
to  carry  them  with  me  because  I'll  have  him  there.  Will 
you  lock  them  in  your  box,  mother,  and  if,  anything  hap- 
pens to  me,  will  you  sure  —  sure  burn  them  ?  "  She  laid 
them  on  the  table  at  her  mother's  elbow.  "You  promise, 
mothah  ?" 

'Yas,  Cass,  yas." 
What's  in  that  bundle,  mothah  .f^'* 

With  trembling  fingers  the  widow  opened  her  parcel 
and  displayed  the  silver  teapot,  from  which  the  spout  had 
been  melted  to  be  moulded  into  silver  bullets. 

"Thar,"  she  said,  holding  it  out  by  the  handle,  "hit's 
yourn.  Farwell,  he  done  that  one  day  whilst  I  war  gone, 
an'  the  last  bullet  war  the  one  Frale  used  when  he  nigh 
killed  your  man.  No,  I  reckon  you  nevah  did  see  hit 
before,  fer  I've  kept  hit  hid  good.  I  knowed  ther  were 
somethin'  to  come  outen  hit  some  day.  Hit  do  show  your 
fathah  come  from  some  fine  high  fambly  somewhar.  I 
done  showed  hit  to  Doctah  David,  fer  I  'lowed  he  mount 
know  was  hit  wuth  anything,  but  he  seemed  to  set  more 
by  them  two  leetle  books.  He  has  them  books  yet,  I 
reckon." 

"Yes,  he  has  them."^ 

"When  Frale  told  me  you  war  a-goin'  to  David,  I 
guessed  'at  thar  war  somethin'  'at  I'd  ought  to  know,  an' 
I  clum  up  here  right  quick,  fer  if  he  war  a-lyin',  I  meant 
to  find  out  the  reason  why."  She  looked  keenly  in  her 
daughter's  face,  which  remained  passive  under  the  scrutiny. 
Has  Frale  been  a-pesterin'  you  ?  " 
He  did  —  some  —  at  first ;  but  I  sent  him  away." 

"I  reckoned  so.  Now  heark.  You  tell  me  straight, 
did  David  send  fer  ye,  er  didn't  he  .f*" 

In  silence  Cassandra  turned  to  her  work,  until  it  seemed 
as  if  the  room  were  filled  with  the  suspense  of  the  unan- 
swered question.     Then  she  tried  evasion. 

"Why  do  you  ask  in  that  way,  mothah  ?" 

"Because  if  he  sont  fer  ye,  I'll  help  ye  all  I  can;  but 
if  he  didn't,  I'll  hinder  ye,  and  ye'll  bide  right  whar 
ye  be." 


Frale  again  Returns  263 

"You  won't  do  that,  mothah." 

"I  sure  will.  If  David  haven't  sont  fer  ye,  an'  ye  go, 
ye'll  have  to  walk  ovah  me  to  get  thar,  hear  ?" 

The  mother's  voice  was  raised  to  a  higher  pitch  than  was 
her  wont,  and  the  little  silver  pot  shook  in  her  hand. 
Cassandra  took  it  and  regarded  it  without  interest,  ab- 
sorbed in  other  thoughts.  Then,  throwing  off  her  abstrac- 
tion, she  began  questioning  her  mother  about  it,  and  why 
she  had  brought  it  to  her  now.  The  widow  told  all  she 
knew,  as  she  had  told  David,  and  pointed  out  the  half 
obliterated  coat  of  arms  on  the  side. 

"I've  heered  your  paw  say  'at  ther  war  more  pleces'n 
this,  oncet,  but  this'n  come  straight  to  him  from  his  grand- 
paw,  an'  now  hit's  yourn.  If  he  have  sont  fer  ye,  take 
hit  with  ye.  Hit  may  be  wuth  more'n  you  think  fer  now. 
I  been  told  they  do  think  a  heap  o'  fambly  ovah  thar,  jest 
like  we  do  here  in  the  mountins.  Leastways,  hit's  all  we 
do  have  —  some  of  us.  My  fambly  war  all  good  stock, 
capable  and  peart ;  an'  now  heark  to  me.  Wharevah  you 
go,  just  you  hold  your  hade  up.  The'  hain't  nothin' 
more  despisable  than  a  body  'at  goes  meachin'  around 
like  some  old  sheep-stealin'  houn'  dog.  Now  if  he  sure 
'nough  have  sont  fer  ye,  go,  an'  I'll  help  ye,  but  if  he 
haven't,  bide  whar  ye  be." 

Cassandra  drew  in  her  breath  sharply,  no  longer  able  to 
evade  the  question,  with  her  mother's  keen  eyes  searching 
her  face.  All  her  reasons  for  going  flashed  through  her 
mind  in  a  moment's  space  of  time.  The  book  she  had  been 
reading  —  what  were  English  people  really  like  "^  And 
David  —  her  David  —  her  boy's  father  —  what  shameful 
things  were  they  saying  of  him  all  over  the  mountain  that 
Frale  should  dare  come  to  her  as  he  had  done  ^  She 
could  not  stay  now ;  she  would  not.  Her  cheeks  flamed, 
and  she  walked  silently  into  the  canvas  room  and  stood 
by  her  baby's  cradle.  Her  mother  began  wrapping  up 
the  silver  pot. 

"I  guess  I'll  take  this  back  an'  lock  hit  up  again.  You 
sure  hain't  to  go  if  ye  can't  give  me  that  word." 

Cassandra  went  quickly  and  took  it  from  her  mother's 
hand.     "No,  mother,  give  it  to  me.     I  told  Frale  David 
had  sent  for  me,  and  I'm  going." 
'And  he  have  sont  fer  ye?'* 


(( 


£64  The  Mountain  Girl 

"Yes,  mothah."  Her  reply  was  low  as  she  turned  again 
to  her  work. 

"Waal,  now,  why  couldn't  you  have  give  me  that  word 
first  off  ?  Hit's  his  right  to  have  ye,  an'  I'll  he'p  ye. 
You'd  ought  to  go  to  him  if  he  can't  come  to  you." 

Instantly  up  and  alert,  putting  bravely  aside  her  own 
feelings  at  the  thought  of  parting,  the  mother  began 
helping  her  daughter;  but  long  after  they  were  finished 
and  settled  for  the  night,  she  lay  wakeful  and  dreading  the 
coming  day. 

Cassandra  slept  less,  and  lay  quietly  thinking,  sorrowful 
that  she  must  leave  her  home,  and  not  a  little  anxious 
over  what  might  be  her  future  and  what  might  be  her  fate 
in  that  strange  land. 

When  at  last  she  slept,  she  dreamed  of  the  people  she 
had  met  in  Vanity  Fairy  with  David  strangely  mixed  up 
among  them,  and  Frale  ever  alert  and  watchful,  moving 
wherever  she  moved,  silently  lingering  near  and  never 
taking  his  eyes  from  her  face. 

In  the  morning,  mother  and  daughter  were  up  betimes, 
but  no  word  was  spoken  between  them  to  betoken  hesita- 
tion or  fear.  Cassandra  walked  in  a  sort  of  dumb  wonder 
at  herself,  and  smouldering  deep  beneath  the  surface  was 
a  fierce  resentment  against  those  who,  having  known  her 
from  childhood,  and  receiving  many  favors  and  kindnesses 
from  her,  should  now  presume  to  so  speak  against  her 
husband  as  to  make  Frale  dare  to  approach  her  as  he  had. 
Oh,  the  burning  shame  of  those  kisses  !  The  shame  of 
the  thought  against  David  that  pervaded  her  beloved 
mountains  !  For  the  sake  of  his  good  name,  she  would 
put  away  her  pride  and  go  to  him. 


CHAPTER   XXIX 

IN  WHICH   CASSANDRA   VISITS   DAVID   THRYNG*S    ANCESTORS 

It  was  a  pleasant  morning  in  London,  with  as  clear  a 
sky  as  is  ever  permitted  to  that  great  city.  Cassandra 
had  placed  her  little  son  in  the  middle  of  a  huge  bed  which 
nearly  filled  the  small  room  she  had  been  given  in  a  hotel, 
recommended  to  her  by  Betty  Towers  as  one  where  '*nice 
ladies  travelling  alone"  could  stop. 

The  child  was  dressed  in  a  fresh  white  coat,  and  Cas- 
sandra had  much  ado  to  keep  him  clean.  She  heaped 
him  about  with  pillows  and  bedclothing  to  make  a  nest 
for  him,  and  gave  him  a  spoon  and  a  drinking  cup  for 
entertainment,  while  she  arranged  her  own  toilet  before 
a  cloudy  mirror  by  a  slant  ray  of  daylight  that  managed 
to  sift  through  the  heavy  draperies  and  lace  curtains  that 
obscured  the  one  high,  narrow  window  of  her  room. 

She  had  tried  to  put  them  one  side  that  she  might  look 
out  when  she  awoke,  but  she  could  see  only  chimney-pots 
and  grimy,  irregularly  tiled  roofs.  A  narrow  opening  at 
the  top  of  the  window  let  in  a  little  air ;  still  she  felt 
smothered,  and  tried  to  raise  the  lower  sash,  but  could  not 
move  it.  She  thought  of  the  books  she  had  read  about 
great  cities,  and  how  some  people  had  to  live  in  places 
like  this  always ;  and  her  heart  filled  with  a  large  pity 
for  them.  Here  only  a  small  triangle  of  blue  sky  could 
be  seen  —  not  a  tree,  not  a  bit  of  earth  —  and  in  the  small 
room  all  those  heavy  furnishings  closed  around  her,  dark 
red,  stuffy,  and  greasy  with  London  smoke.  She  could 
not  touch  them  without  blackening  her  hands,  nor  let  her 
baby  sit  on  the  floor  for  the  dirt  he  wiped  up  on  his  cloth- 
ing as  he  rolled  and  kicked  about. 

The  room  seemed  to  sway  and  tip  as  the  ship  had  done, 
and  there  was  a  continuous  sound  as  of  thunder,  a  strange 
undercurrent  that  seemed  to  her  strained  nerves  like  the 

265 


266  The  Mountain  Girl 

moaning  of  the  lost  souls  of  all  the  ages,  who  had  lived  and 
toiled  and  smothered  in  this  monstrous  and  terrible  city. 

Ah,  she  must  get  out  of  it.  She  must  hurry  —  hurry 
and  find  David.  He  would  be  glad  to  see  his  little  son. 
He  would  take  him  in  his  arms.  He  would  hold  them 
both  to  his  heart.  She  would  see  him  smile  again  and  look 
in  his  eyes,  and  all  this  foreboding  would  cease,  and  the 
woful  sounds  die  out  of  the  air  and  become  only  the 
natural  roar  of  the  activities  and  traflfic  of  a  great  city. 
She  must  get  used  to  all  this,  and  not  expect  to  find  all  the 
world  like  her  own  sunny  mountains. 

The  bishop's  careful  little  wife  had  tried  to  explain  to 
her  how  to  meet  her  new  experiences.  She  was  to  go 
nowhere  alone,  without  taking  a  cab,  and  never  start  out 
on  foot,  carrying  her  baby  in  her  arms,  as  she  might  do  at 
home.  She  had  given  her  written  instructions  how  to 
conduct  herself  under  all  ordinary  circumstances,  at  her 
hotel  or  on  the  street  —  how  to  ring  for  a  servant,  order 
her  meals,  or  call  a  cab. 

Now,  standing  before  her  mirror,  Cassandra  essayed  to 
arrange  her  hair  as  she  had  seen  other  young  women 
wear  theirs,  but  she  thought  the  new  way  looked  untidy, 
and  she  took  it  all  down  and  rearranged  it  as  she  was  used 
to  wear  it.  David  would  not  mind  if  she  did  not  do  her  hair 
as  others  did,  he  would  be  so  glad  to  see  her  and  his  little 
son.  Ah,  the  comfort  of  that  little  son  !  She  leaned  over 
the  bed,  half  dressed  as  she  was,  and  murmured  pretty  coo- 
ing phrases,  kissing  and  cuddling  him  to  contented  laughter. 

Betty  Towers  had  procured  clothing  for  her  —  a  modest 
supply  —  using  her  own  good  taste,  and  not  disguising  Cas- 
sandra's natural  grace  and  dignity  by  a  too-close  adherence 
to  the  prevailing  mode.  There  w^ere  a  blue  travelling  gown 
and  jacket,  and  a  toque  of  the  same  color  with  a  white 
wing;  a  soft  clinging  black  silk,  made  with  girlish  sim- 
plicity which  admirably  became  her,  and  a  wide,  flexible 
brimmed  hat  with  a  single  heavy  plume  taken  from 
Betty's  own  hat  of  the  last  winter.  Cassandra  stood  a 
long  moment  before  the  two  gowns.  She  desired  to  don 
the  silk,  but  Betty  had  told  her  always  to  wear  the  blue  in 
the  morning,  so  at  last  she  obeyed  her  kind  adviser. 

While  waiting  with  her  baby  in  her  arms  for  the  hotel 
boy  to  call  her  cab,  she  observed  another  lady,  young  and 


David's  Ancestors  267 

graceful,  enter  a  cab,  and  a  maid  following  her  wearing  a 
pretty  cap>  and  carrying  a  child.  Eager,  for  David's  sake, 
to  draw  no  adverse  comment  upon  herself,  she  took  note 
of  everything.  Ought  she  then  to  arrive  attended  by  a 
maid,  carrying  her  baby  ?  But  David  would  know  she 
did  not  need  one ;  bringing  him  his  little  son  in  her  own 
arms,  what  would  he  care  for  anything  more  ?  So  the 
address  was  given  the  cabman,  and  they  were  rattled  aw^ay 
over  the  rough  paving,  a  long,  lonely  ride  through  the 
wonderful  city  —  so  many  miles  of  houses  and  splendid 
buildings,  of  gardens  and  monuments. 

Strangely,  the  people  of  Vanity  Fair  leaped  out  of  the 
book  she  had  read,  and  walked  the  streets  or  dashed  by 
her  in  cabs  —  albeit  in  modern  dress.  The  soldiers  —  the 
guardsmen  —  the  liveried  lackeys  —  the  errand  boys  — 
all  were  there,  and  the  ladies  in  fine  carriages.  There  were 
the  nursemaids  —  the  babies  —  the  beggars  —  the  ragged 
urchins  and  the  venders  of  the  street,  with  their  raucous 
cries  rending  the  air.  Her  brain  whirled,  and  a  new  feel- 
ing to  which  she  had  hitherto  been  blessedly  a  stranger 
crept  over  her,  a  feeling  of  fear. 

As  the  great  two-story  coaches  and  trams  thundered 
by,  she  clasped  her  baby  closer,  until  he  looked  up  in  her 
face  with  round-eyed  wonder  and  put  up  his  lip  in  pitiful 
protest.  She  soothed  and  comforted  him  until  her  panic 
passed,  and  when,  at  last,  they  stopped  before  a  great 
house  built  in  on  either  side  by  other  houses,  with  wide 
steps  of  stone  descending  directly  upon  the  street,  she  had 
regained  a  measure  of  composure.  She  was  assured  by  the 
cabman,  leaning  respectfully  down  to  her  with  his  cap  in 
his  hand,  that  this  was  "the  'ouse,  ma'm,"  and  should  he 
wait  ? 

"Oh,  yes.  Wait,"  cried  Cassandra.  What  if  David 
were  not  there  !  And  of  course,  he  might  be  out.  Then 
they  were  swallowed  up  in  the  dark  interior.  She  was 
admitted  to  a  hall  that  seemed  to  her  empty  and  vast,  by 
a  little  old  man  in  livery.  For  a  moment,  bewildered,  she 
could  hardly  understand  what  he  was  saying  to  her.  "  'Er 
ladyship's  at  'er  country  'ome  and  the  'ouse  closed." 

Although  dazed  and  baffled,  Cassandra  betrayed  no 
sign  of  the  tumult  within,  and  the  little  old  man  stood 
before  her  hesitating,  his  curiosity  piqued  into  a  determi- 


268  The  Mountain  Girl 

nation  to  discover  her  business  and  identity.  Her  gravity 
and  silence  gave  her  a  poise  and  dignity  that  allayed  sus- 
picion, but  he  and  his  old  wife  liked  diversion,  and  a  spice 
of  gossip  lightened  the  monotony  of  their  lives,  so  he 
waited,  then  coughed  behind  his  hand. 

"Yes,  'er  ladyship  and  Lady  Laura  are  at  their  country 
'ome  now,  ma'm.  Maybe  you  came  to  see  the  'ouse, 
ma'm.?" 

"No,  it  was  not  the  house  —  it  was — "  Again  she 
waited,  not  knowing  how  to  introduce  her  husband's 
name. 

A  mystery  !  A  visitor  at  this  hour,  and  seemingly  a 
lady,  yet  with  a  baby  in  her  arms,  and  alone,  and  not  to 
see  the  house.     Again  he  coughed  behind  his  hand. 

*' A  many  do  come  to  see  the  'ouse,  ma'm,  with  a  permit 
from  'is  lordship,  ma'm.  'E's  not  'ere  now,  but  strangers 
are  halways  welcome  —  to  the  gallery,  ma'm." 

"Yes,  I'm  a  stranger.'  She  caught  at  the  word. 
Seized  by  an  inward  terror  of  the  small  eyes  fixed  curiously 
on  her,  she  intuitively  shrank  from  betraying  her  identity, 
and  the  old  servant  had  told  her  what  she  needed  to  know. 
Of  course  her  husband  was  "his  lordship,"  over  here. 
"I  am  from  America,  and  I  would  like  to  see  the  gallery." 
She  must  do  so  to  give  a  pretext  for  having  come  to  visit 
an  empty  house.  David  must  not  be  compromised  be- 
fore the  old  servant,  but  a  great  lump  filled  her  throat, 
and  tears  were  burning  unshed  beneath  her  eyes. 

For  all  of  the  warm  August  sun  shining  without,  a  chill 
struck  to  her  bones  as  they  passed  through  the  vast, 
closed  rooms.  She  held  her  now  sleeping  baby  close  to 
her  breast  as  she  followed  the  old  man  about  from  picture 
to  picture. 

"Yes,  a  many  do  come  'ere  —  especially  hartists  —  to 
see  this  gallery.  They  say  as  'ow  'is  lordship  wouldn't 
take  a  thousand  pounds  for  this  one,  ma'm.  We'll  let  in 
a  little  more  light.  A  Vandyke  —  and  worth  it's  weight 
in  gold." 

Cassandra  watched  him  cross  the  floor,  his  short  bow 
legs  reflected  grotesquely  in  its  shining  surface  as  he 
walked,  then  turned  and  gazed  again  at  the  life-size,  half- 
length  portrait  of  a  young  man  with  sunny  hair  like  David's 
and  warm  brown  eyes. 


David's  Ancestors  269 

"There,  you  see,  it's  more  than  a  Vandyke  to  the  family, 
ma'm,  for  it's  a  hancestor,  and  my  wife  says  it's  as  like  as 
two  peas  to  'is  young  lordship,  who  has  just  come  into  the 
title,  ma'm.  And  that's  strange,  isn't  it,  for  'im  to  look  so 
like,  being  as  'e  belonged  to  the  younger  branch  who 
'aven't  'eld  the  title  for  four  generations ;  but  come  to 
dress  'im  in  velvet  and  gold  lace,  and  the  likeness  would  be 
nigh  as  perfect  as  if  'e  'ad  stood  for  it." 

Cassandra  gazed  so  long  sil^^ntly  at  this  picture  that 
again  the  little  man  coughed  his  deprecatory  cough  and 
essayed  to  lead  her  on ;  but  she  was  seeing  visions  and  did 
not  heed  him.  When  at  last  she  turned,  her-gray  eyes  had 
deepened,  and  a  clearly  defined  spot  of  delicate  red  burned 
on  one  pale  cheek.  She  drew  a  deep  breath  and  looked 
down  the  length  of  the  long  gallery.  Everything  was 
being  impressed  upon  her  mind  as  upon  sensitized  paper. 

She  followed  slowly  in  the  old  man's  wake,  never  open- 
ing her  lips  until  they  had  made  the  circuit  and  were  again 
standing  before  the  portrait  of  the  fair-haired  youth. 
Then,  roused  suddenly  by  a  direct  question,  she  responded. 

The  old  servant  was  saying:  "You  'aven't  'appened 
to  meet  a  Samuel  Cutter  in  America,  'ave  you  "^  'E's  our 
son.  England  was  too  slow  for  'im.  Young  men  aren't 
like  old  ones ;  they  wants  hadventure,  and  they  gets  it. 
That's  'ow  so  many  of  'em  joins  the  harmy  and  gets 
killed  like  'is  lordship's  two  sons,  and  young  Lord 
Thryng's  brother  as  would  'ave  been  'is  lordship,  if  'e'  ad 
lived.  You  'aven't  'appened  to  know  a  Samuel  Cutter 
over  there  ?     'E  went  to  Canada. " 

*'No,  I  never  met  any  one  by  that  name.  I  live  a  long 
way  from  Canada." 

''About  'ow  far  do  you  think,  ma'm.^*" 

Cassandra  had  no  idea  of  the  distance,  but  she  knew 
how  long  David  and  Hoyle  were  journeying  there,  so  she 
answered  as  best  she  could.  "It  takes  three  or  four  days 
to  get  there  from  my  home." 

The  old  man's  eyes  opened  wide,  and  his  jaw  dropped. 
"It's  a  big  country  —  America  is.  England  may  be  a 
small  place,  but  she  'as  tremendous  big  possessions."  He 
felt  it  all  belonged  to  England,  and  spoke  with  swelling 
pride  as  his  short  legs  carried  him  toward  the  door.  There 
again  he  paused.     He  had  learned  nothing  of  this  young 


270  The  Mountain  Girl 

woman  to  tell  his  old  wife,  except  that  she  came  from 
America,  and  had  never  met  Samuel  Cutter.  The  mystery 
was  still  unsolved. 

"Yes,  'is  young  lordship  do  look  amazing  like  that  pic- 
ture. If  you'd  ever  seen  'im,  you'd  think  'e'd  dressed  up 
in  velvet  and  lace  and  stood  for  it.  'E's  lived  in  America 
five  years,  but  if  you  never  were  in  Canada  and  never  met 
our  Sammy,  it's  more  likely  you  never  saw  'im  either." 

"Is  he  at  their  country  home  also?"  Cassandra  asked. 
She  had  seated  herself  in  the  hall,  for  her  heart  throbbed 
chokingly,  and  the  lump  was  heavy  in  her  throat.  It 
was  as  she  had  dreamed  sometimes,  when  her  feet  seemed 
to  cling  to  the  earth,  and  would  not  lift  her  weight  up  some 
steep  hill. 

"'Is  lordship  is  still  in  Hafrica,  mam.  'E  'ave  been  a 
great  traveller,  but  'e  can't  stay  much  longer  now,  for 
Lady  Laura  is  to  'ave  a  grand  coming  out,  and  'is  lordship 
is  to  be  married.  Her  ladyship's  'eart  is  set  on  it,  and  on 
'is  marrying  'igh,  too.     That's  gossip,  you  know." 

Cassandra  rose  and  stood  suddenly  poised  for  flight. 
She  must  get  out  of  that  house  and  hear  no  more.  She 
had  a  silver  shilling  in  her  hand,  for  Betty  Towers  had  told 
her  all  servants  expected  a  tip,  and  this  was  intended  for 
the  cabman.  Had  she  followed  her  impulse,  she  would 
have  darted  by  with  her  fingers  in  her  ears,  but  instead, 
she  dropped  the  shilling  in  the  old  man's  hand,  and  quietly 
turned  toward  the  door. 

"Thank  you,"  his  fingers  closed  over  the  shilling.  Her 
pallor  struck  him  then,  even  as  the  red  spot  on  her  cheek 
deepened,  and  he  held  out  his  arms  for  the  child. 

"Let  me  carry  'im  for  you,  ma'm.     Is  it  a  boy.^^" 

But  her  arms  closed  tighter  about  her  baby.  "He  is 
my  little  son."  It  was  almost  a  cry,  as  she  said  it,  but 
again  she  forced  herself  to  calmness,  and,  walking  slowly 
out,  added,  with  a  quiet  smile:  "I  always  keep  him 
myself.     We  do  in  America." 

In  a  moment  she  was  gone.  The  warm  sunlight  burst 
in  on  them  and  flooded  the  cold  hall  as  the  old  man  stood 
in  the  doorway  looking  after  the  retreating  cab,  and  down 
at  the  silver  shilling. 

Darker,  dingier,  stuffier,  seemed  the  box  of  a  room,  as 
she  walked  into  it  and  laid  her  still  sleeping  babe  on  the 


David's  Ancestors  271 

bed.  She  felt  herself  moving  In  an  unreal  world.  David 
—  her  David  —  she  had  not  come  to  him  after  all ;  she 
had  come  to  an  empty  place.  She  knelt  and  threw  her 
arms  about  her  little  son,  encircling  his  head  and  his  feet. 
She  neither  wept  nor  prayed ;  and  the  red  spot  burned 
against  the  creamy  whiteness  of  her  skin.  She  was  not 
thinking,  only  looking,  seeing  into  the  past  and  down  the 
long  vista  of  her  future. 

Pictures  came  to  her  —  pictures  of  her  girlhood  —  her 
dim  aspirations  —  her  melancholy-eyed  father  —  his 
hilltop  —  and  beloved,  sunlit  mountains.  In  the  radi- 
ance of  the  spring,  she  saw  them,  and  in  the  glory  of  the 
autumn ;  she  breathed  the  fragrance  of  the  pines  in  winter 
and  heard  the  soft  patter  of  summer  rains  on  widespread- 
ing  leaves.  She  saw  David  walking  at  her  side,  and 
heard  his  laugh,  sun-bright  and  glorious  he  seemed,  her 
Phoebus  Apollo  —  the  father  of  her  little  son. 

She  saw  the  terrible  sea  which  she  had  crossec^to  come 
to  him  —  the  white-crested  waves,  with  turquoise  lights 
and  indigo  depths,  shifting  and  sliding  unceasingly  where 
all  the  world  seemed  swallowed  in  space,  and  the  huge 
steamship  so  small  a  thing  in  the  vast  and  perilous  deep; 
and  now  —  now  she  was  here.  What  was  she  ?  What 
was  life  ? 

She  had  tried  to  find  him,  her  David,  and  had  been 
shown  the  dead,  and  the  glory  of  the  dead  —  all  past  and 
gone  —  her  David's  glory.  Shown  that  long,^  empty 
gallery  resounding  with  those  aged  footsteps,  and  the  pic- 
tures —  pictures  —  pictures  —  of  men  and  women  who 
had  once  been  babes  like  her  little  son  and  David's,  now 
dead  and  gone  —  not  one  soul  among  them  all  to  greet 
her.  Proud  lords  and  dames  in  frames  of  gold ;  young 
men  and  maidens  in  costly  silks  and  velvets  of  marvellous 
dyes,  red-cheeked,  red-lipped,  and  soullessly  silent;  and 
she,  alone  and  undefended  in  their  midst,  holding  in  her 
arms  their  last  descendant.  All  those  painted  fingers 
seemed  lifted  to  point  at  her ;  those  silent  red  lips  parted 
to  cry  out  at  her,  "Look  at  this  stranger  claiming  to  be 
one  of  us  ;  send  her  away." 

And  David  —  her  David  —  was  one  of  these  !  What 
they  had  felt  —  what  they  had  thought  and  striven  for  — 
was  it  all  intensified  and  concentrated  in  him?    Oh,  if 


272  The  Mountain  Girl 

her  soul  could  only  reach  to  him,  wherever  he  was,  and 
penetrate  this  impalpable  veil  that  stretched  between 
them  !  If  her  hands  could  only  touch  him,  her  eyes  look 
into  his  and  see  what  lay  in  their  depths  for  her  ! 

Then  her  babe  stirred  and  tossed  up  his  pretty  hands, 
waking  her  from  her  sad,  vision-seeing  trance.  He  opened 
his  large,  clear  eyes,  and  suddenly  it  seemed  that  her  wish 
was  granted,  —  that  the  veil  was  rent  and  she  was  look- 
ing into  David's  eyes  and  seeing  his  soul  free,  no  longer 
chained  by  invisible  links  to  those  dead  and  gone  beings, 
and  their  traditions.  This  had  been  all  a  dream  —  a 
dream. 

She  gathered  the  child  in  her  arms  and  held  him  with 
his  sweet,  warm  lips  pressed  to  her  breast  and  his  soft  little 
hand  thrust  in  her  bosom.  David's  little  son  —  David's 
little  son  !  Surely  all  was  good  and  well  with  the  world  ! 
Did  not  the  old  man  say  it  was  only  gossip  ?  Had  not 
evil  things  been  said  of  David  even  on  her  own  mountain  ? 
It  was  the  trail  of  the  serpent  of  ill  report.  He  had  not 
confided  his  sacred  secret  to  these  people,  and  they  had 
thought  what  they  pleased.  Surely  he  had  told  his 
mother  about  his  wife.  She  would  go  to  his  mother  and 
wait  for  his  return,  and  there  she  would  bring  her  precious 
gift  —  David's  little  son. 

Quickly  she  packed  her  few  belongings  and  rang  for  a 
messenger,  and  as  she  stood  an  instant  waiting  for  an  an- 
swer to  her  ring,  the  white-capped  nurse  she  had  noticed 
in  the  morning  passed  by  with  the  baby  in  her  arms.  Yes, 
surely  women  of  David's  state  did  not  travel  about  alone. 
Had  she  not  read  in  Vanity  Fair  how  Becky  Sharp  always 
had  her  maid  ?  And  now  she  was  in  "Vanity  Fair,"  and 
must  be  wise  and  not  go  to  David's  mother  unattended. 
Then,  too,  if  only  she  had  some  one  with  her  to  whom  she 
could  speak  now  and  then,  it  would  be  better.  There- 
fore, without  further  consideration,  she  walked  swiftly 
down  the  corridor  after  the  tidy  nurse. 

"Will  you  tell  me,  please,  have  you  a  sister  .f^"  she  said. 
The  young  woman  stood  still  in  astonishment.  "Or  — 
any  friend  like  yourself  ?  I  —  I  am  a  stranger  from 
America."  The  look  of  surprise  changed  to  one  of  curi^ 
osity.  "And  it  is  right  hard  to  go  about  alone  with  my 
baby,  so  I  thought  I  would  ask  you  if  you  have  a  sister." 


David's  Ancestors  273 

"Is  it  to  the  country  you  wish  to  go,  ma'm?"  The 
baby  in  her  arms  stirred,  and  the  nurse  swayed  gently  back 
and  forth  to  hush  it. 

"Yes." 

"I  couldn't  go  with  you  myself,  ma'm  —  but — " 

"Oh,  no  !  I  didn't  mean  you.  I  only  thought  if  you 
had  a  sister  —  or  a  friend,  maybe,  who  could  help  me  for 
a  little  while." 

"  I  saw  you  this  morning,  ma'm,  as  you  went  out.  I'll 
see  what  I  can  do.  What  number  is  your  room  ?  and 
what  name  ?  I  mustn't  talk  here.  Mrs.  Darling  is  very 
particular." 

"Oh,  never  mind,  then."  Cassandra  turned  away  in 
sudden  shame  lest  she  had  not  done  the  right  thing.  The 
nurse  watched  her  return  to  her  room  as  swiftly  as  she  had 
left  it,  and  took  note  of  the  number. 

"How  very  odd  !"  said  the  young  woman  to  herself. 

Cassandra  felt  more  abashed  under  the  round-eyed  gaze 
of  the  maid  than  if  she  had  encountered  the  queen.  Her 
ring  for  a  messenger  had  not  been  answered,  and  she  did 
not  know  how  to  find  her  husband's  country-seat.  She 
felt  faint  and  weary,  but  did  not  think  of  hunger,  nor  that 
it  was  long  past  the  dinner-hour,  and  that  she  had  eaten 
nothing  since  her  early  breakfast.  She  only  thought  that 
she  must  be  brave  and  try  —  try  to  think  how  to  reach 
David's  people. 

Resolutely  she  closed  her  door,  and  dressed  her  baby 
carefully ;  then  she  arrayed  herself  in  the  soft  silk  gown, 
and  the  wide  hat  with  the  heavy  plume,  and  then  —  could 
David  have  seen  her  with  her  courageous  eyes  and  lifted 
head,  and  the  faint  color  from  excitement  in  her  cheeks  — 
he  would  no  longer  have  feared  to  take  her  by  the  hand 
and  lead  her  to  his  mother  and  say,  "She  is  my  wife, 
and  the  loveliest  lady  in  the  land." 

People  looked  at  her  as  she  passed,  and  turned  to  look 
again.  Down  wade,  carpeted  stairs  she  went,  until  she 
came  to  a  broad  landing  with  recessed  windows,  where  were 
round  polished  tables  and  people  seated,  sipping  tea  and 
eating  thin  bread  and  butter  and  muffins.  Then  Cassandra 
knew  that  she  was  hungry  and  sat  herself  in  one  of  the 
windows  apart,  before  a  table.  Presently  a  young  man 
came  and  bent  down  to  her  as  if  listening.     She  looked  up 


274  The  Mountain  Girl 

at  him  in  bewilderment,  but  at  the  same  instant,  seeing 
another  young  man  similarly  dressed  bearing  a  tray  of 
muffins  and  tea  to  a  lady  and  gentleman  near  by,  she  said :  — 

*'I  would  like  tea,  please." 

"Wot  kind,  ma'm  ?"  She  did  not  care  what  kind,  nor 
know  for  what  to  ask,  only  to  have  something  soon,  so  she 
said :  —  « 

"I  will  take  what  they  have." 

"Yes,  ma'm.     Muffins,  ma'm?" 

"Yes,"  she  replied  wearily,  and  turned  to  gaze  out  of 
the  window.  Cabs  and  carriages  were  rushing  up  and 
down  the  street  below  them.  She  placed  her  little  son 
on  the  seat  beside  her  and  held  him  with  sheltering  arm, 
while  he  watched  the  moving  vehicles  and  looked  from 
them  to  his  mother's  face. 

"What  a  perfectly  lovely  child  !"  said  a  pleasant  voice. 
"Is  it  a  boy.?    How  old  is  he.?" 

Cassandra  looked  up  to  see  a  rosy-cheeked  girl,  a  little 
too  stout  and  florid,  with  a  great  mop  of  dark  hair  tied 
with  a  wide  black  ribbon.  A  gray-haired  lady  followed, 
and  paused  beside  her. 

"Yes,"  said  Cassandra,  faintly.  "He  is  almost  six 
months  old." 

The  girl  reached  over  and  patted  his  cheek.  "How 
perfectly  dear.     See  him,  mamma.     Isn't  he,    though  ? " 

"Babies  are  always  dear,"  said  the  mother,  with  a 
smile.  "Come,  Laura,  we  can't  wait,  you  know,"  and 
they  passed  on.  As  Cassandra  looked  up  in  the  mother's 
face,  something  stirred  vaguely  in  her  heart.  Had  she 
seen  her  before  ?  Possibly,  so  many  had  paused  to  speak 
to  her  in  this  casual  way  since  she  left  home. 

Then  her  tea  and  crisp,  hot  muffins  were  brought. 
The  young  girl's  pleasant  words  had  warmed  her  heart, 
and  the  refreshment  gave  her  more  courage.  She  made 
her  way  to  the  office  and  inquired  how  she  might  find 
Lord  Thryng's  country  home.  The  clerk  wrote  the 
address  promptly  on  a  card,  but  the  keen  look  of  interest 
with  which  he  handed  it  to  her  caused  her  to  shrink  in- 
wardly. Why,  what  was  it  to  him  what  place  she  asked 
for  ?     She  lifted  her  head  proudly.     She  must  not  falter. 

"I  wish  to  go  there.     Will  you  tell  me  how,  please.?" 

But  the  surprise  of  the  clerk  was  quite  natural,  as  she 


r 


David's  Ancestors  275 

had  signed  the  hotel  register  the  evening  before  with  her 
whole  name,  giving  no  thought  to  it;  and  now  he  won- 
dered what  relation  she  might  be  to  the  family  so  lately 
come  into  the  title,  since  she  bore  the  name,  yet  seemed  to 
know  so  little  about  them.  He  explained  to  her  cour- 
teously —  almost  deferentially. 

*'Will  you  go  to  Daneshead  Castle  itself,  ma'm,  or  stop 
in  Queensderry  ?'*  As  she  had  no  idea  what  the  question 
involved,  she  replied  at  hazard. 

'*I  will  stop  in  Queensderry."  And  her  bags  were 
brought  down,  and  she  was  despatched  to  the  right  sta- 
tion without  more  delay. 


CHAPTER  XXX 

IN   WHICH   CASSANDRA   GOES   TO   QUEENSDERRY   AND  TAKES 
A   DRIVE   IN   A   PONY   CARRIAGE 

Glad  to  be  borne  away  from  the  city  and  out  through 
fresh  green  fields  and  past  pretty  church-spired  villages, 
alone  in  the  compartment,  Cassandra  comforted  herself 
with  her  baby,  playing  with  him  until  he  dropped  to  sleep, 
when  she  made  a  bed  for  him  on  the  car  seat  with  rugs, 
and,  taking  out  her  purse,  began  to  count  her  remaining 
resources.  Her  bill  at  the  hotel  had  appalled  her.  So 
much  to  pay  to  stay  only  a  night !  What  would  David 
say  ?  But  he  had  told  her  to  use  the  money  as  she  liked, 
and  now  she  was  here,  there  was  nothing  else  to  do. 

Laboriously  she  computed  the  amount  in  English  money, 
and,  reckoned  thus,  her  dollars  and  cents  seemed  to  shrink 
and  vanish.  Still,  more  than  half  remained  of  what  she 
had  brought  with  her,  and  she  viewed  the  matter  calmly. 

The  shadows  fell  long  over  the  smooth  greensward  as 
she  arrived  in  the  village  of  Queensderry  and  was  driven 
to  a  small  inn,  the  only  house  of  entertainment  in  the 
place.  She  was  given  a  pleasant  room  overlooking  fields 
and  orchards  and  bright  gardens,  and  the  sight  rested  her 
eyes,  and  still  further  calmed  her  troubled  heart.  She 
would  rest  to-night,  and  to-morrow  all  would  be  well. 

Never  had  food  tasted  better  to  her  than  the  supper 
served  in  her  pretty  room,  —  toast  in  a  silver  rack,  and 
fresh  butter,  such  as  David  loved,  and  curds  and  whey, 
and  gingerbread,  and  a  small  jar  of  marmalade.  She  ate, 
seated  in  the  window,  looking  out  over  the  sweet  English 
landscape  in  the  warm  twilight  —  the  breeze  stirring  the 
white  curtains  —  her  little  son  in  her  lap  gurgling  and 
smiling  up  at  her — and  her  heart  with  David,  wherever  he 
might  be. 

Slowly  the  dusk  veiled  all,  and  one  star  glimmered  above 
the  slender  church  spire.     A  pretty  maid  brought  candles 

276 


Cassandra  at  Queensderry  277 

and  a  book  in  which  she  was  asked  to  write  her  name. 
She  was  the  landlady's  daughter  and  looked  wholesome 
and  bright.  Cassandra  glanced  in  her  face  as  she  set  the 
candles  down,  and  took  up  the  pen  mechanically. 

*' Mother  says  will  you  sign  here,  please.'^" 

"Yes."  Cassandra  turned  the  leaves  slowly  and  read 
other  names  and  addresses  —  many  of  them.  She  wrote 
"Cassandra  Merlin  — "  and  paused;  then,  making  a  long 
dash,  added  simply,  "America,'*  and,  handing  back  the 
book  and  pen,  turned  again  to  the  window. 

"Thank  you.     Is  that  all  ?''  said  the  maid,  lingering. 

"Yes,"  said  Cassandra  again ;  then  she  laid  her  baby  on 
the  bed  and  began  taking  his  night  clothing  from  her  bag. 

"How  pretty  he  is  !     Shan't  I  help  you  unpack,  ma'm  ?  " 

Cassandra  paused,  looking  dreamily  before  her  as  if 
scarcely  comprehending,  then  she  said  :  "Not  to-night, 
thank  you.  Perhaps  to-morrow."  The  maid  deftly 
piled  the  supper  dishes  and,  taking  them  and  the  book 
with  her,  departed  with  a  pleasant  "Good  night,  ma'm." 

In  spite  of  her  calmness,  Cassandra  lay  wakeful  and 
patient,  and  when  at  last  she  did  sleep,  it  seemed  to  her 
she  stood  with  her  husband  on  her  father's  path,  looking 
out  under  overarching  boughs,  upon  blue  distances  of 
heaped-up  mountain  tops,  and  David's  flute  notes,  silvery 
sweet,  were  raining  down  upon  her.  She  awoke  to  discover 
day  was  breaking,  and  a  pealing  of  bells  from  some  distant 
church  tower  was  announcing  the  fact. 

She  gathered  her  babe  to  her  throbbing  heart  and 
thought,  to-day  she  was  to  go  out  and  meet  her  husband's 
people.  How  should  she  go  ?  How  should  she  conduct 
herself  ?  Should  she  go  at  once,  or  wait  until  the  after- 
noon ?  Why  had  she  not  written  her  name  fully  in  the 
travellers'  book  ?  What  mysterious  foreboding  had  caught 
her  fingers  and  stayed  them  at  her  maiden  name  ?  Was 
she  afraid  ?  TNTien  she  arose,  she  found  herself  trembling 
from  head  to  foot,  and  called  for  her  breakfast,  before 
bathing  and  dressing  her  little  son. 

The  same  pretty  maid  brought  it,  and  came  again,  while 
Cassandra  bathed  and  nursed  her  baby,  to  set  the  room 
to  rights. 

"  Shan't  I  unpack  your  box  for  you  now,  ma'm  ?  '*  And, 
without  waiting  for  a  reply,  she  took  out  Cassandra's 


278  The  Mountain  Girl 

clothing,  pausing  now  and  then  to  admire  and  pet  the 
lovely  boy.  Her  simple  friendliness  pleased  Cassandra, 
who  was  minded  to  ask  some  of  the  questions  which  were 
burdening  her. 

"When  do  people  make  visits  here,  in  the  morning  or 
afternoon  "^  " 

"That  depends,  ma'm." 

"How  do  you  mean  ?  I'm  a  stranger  in  England,  you 
know." 

"Yes,  ma'm.  If  they  make  polite  visits,  they  go  about 
tea  time,  ma'm.  But  if  it's  parish  visits,  or  on  business, 
or  on  people  they  know  very  well,  they  may  go  in  the 
morning,  ma'm." 

"And  when  is  tea  time  here?" 

"Why,  ma'm,  everybody  has  their  tea  in  the  afternoon 
along  four  or  thereabouts,  and  sees  their  friends." 

"Can  I  get  a  carriage  here,  do  you  know.'^" 

"I  can  get  a  pony  carriage,  ma'm.  We  hires  it  when  we 
need  it,  only  we  must  speak  for  it  early,  or  it  may  be 
taken." 

"  Oh  !  Then  will  you  please  speak  for  it  soon  ?  I  would 
like  to  have  it." 

"Yes,  ma'm.  Will  you  drive  yourself,  ma'm,  or  shall 
I  ask  for  a  boy  ? " 

Oh!     I  don't  know.     I  can  drive  —  but — " 
They  are  gentle  ponies,  ma'm.     Any  one  can  drive 
them." 

"Yes,  but  I  don't  know  the  way." 

"Yes,  ma'm.     Where  would  you  like  to  go,  ma'm?" 

"To  Daneshead  Castle." 

The  bright-cheeked  maid  opened  her  round  eyes  wider 
and  looked  at  Cassandra  with  new  interest.  "But,  ma'm, 
—  that  is  quite  far,  though  the  ponies  are  smart,  too." 

"How  far  is  it?" 

"It's  quite  a  bit  away  from  here,  ma'm ;  you'd  have  to 
start  at  two  or  thereabouts.  I  could  take  you  myself  if 
mother  would  let  me,  and  tell  you  all  the  interesting  places, 
but "  —  the  girl  looked  at  her  shrewdly,  a  quickly  with- 
drawn glance — "  that  depends  on  how  well  acquainted  you 
are  there,  ma'm.  Maybe  you'd  like  better  to  have  a  man 
drive,  and  just  let  me  go  along  to  mind  the  baby  for  you." 

"Yes,  I  would,"  said  Cassandra,  gladly. 


Cassandra  at  Queensderry  279 

"Thank  you.     I'll  run  for  the  ponies  now,  ma'm.** 

Cassandra  heard  her  boots  clatter  rapidly  down  the 
wooden  stairs  at  the  back  of  the  house,  and  presently  saw 
her  dashing  across  the  inn  yard,  bareheaded  and  with  her 
bare  arms  rolled  in  her  apron. 

The  girl's  manner  of  receiving  the  statement  that  she 
wished  to  drive  to  the  castle  was  not  lost  on  Cassandra's 
sensitive  spirit.  She  sat  a  moment,  thoughtful  and  sad, 
then  rose  and  set  herself  to  prepare  carefully  for  the  visit. 
In  the  afternoon  !  Then  she  might  wear  the  silk  gown 
and  lovely  hat.  Once  more  she  tried  to  arrange  her  hair 
as  she  saw  other  young  women  wear  theirs,  and  again 
swept  its  heavy  masses  back  loosely  from  her  brow  and 
coiled  it  low  as  her  custom  was. 

The  landlady's  daughter  chattered  happily  as  they 
drove.  She  held  the  baby  on  her  knee,  and  he  played 
with  the  blue  beads  she  wore  about  her  neck,  while  Cas- 
sandra sat  with  hands  dropped  passively  in  her  lap,  her 
body  leaning  a  little  forward,  straight  and  poised  as  if  to 
move  more  rapidly  along,  her  red  lips  parted  as  if 
listening  and  waiting,  and  her  eyes  courteously  turning 
toward  the  places  and  objects  pointed  out  to  her,  yet 
neither  seeing  nor  hearing,  except  vaguely. 

Presently  becoming  aware  that  the  chatter  was 
about  the  family  at  Daneshead  Castle,  her  interest 
suddenly  awoke.  About  the  old  lord  —  how  vast  his 
possessions  —  how  ancient  the  family  —  how  neglected  the 
castle  had  been  ever  since  Lady  Thryng's  death,  —  every- 
thing allowed  to  run  down,  even  though  they  were  so  vastly 
rich  —  how  different  everything  was  now  the  parsimonious 
old  lord  was  dead  and  the  new  lord  had  come  in,  and  there 
were  once  more  ladies  in  the  family  —  what  a  time  since 
there  had  been  a  Lady  Thryng  at  Daneshead  —  how  much 
Lady  Laura  was  like  her  cousin  Lyon  —  how  reckless  she 
would  be  if  her  mother  did  not  hold  her  with  a  firm  hand 
—  and  so  the  chatter  ran  on. 

The  girl  enjoyed  the  distinction  of  knowing  all  about  the 
great  family  and  enlightening  this  stranger  from  America, 
whose  silent  attention  and  occasional  monosyllablic  replies 
were  sufficient  to  inspire  her  friendly  efforts  to  entertain. 
Moreover,  her  curiosity  concerning  Cassandra  and  her 
errand,  where  she  was  evidently  neither  expected  nor  known, 


280  The  Mountain  Girl 

was  piqued  and  lively,  and  she  threw  out  many  tentative 
remarks  to  probe  if  possible  the  stranger  lady's  thoughts. 

"Have  you  ever  seen  Lord  Thryng  —  the  new  lord,  I 
mean,  ma'm  ?  " 

"Yes,"  said  Cassandra,  simply,  a  chill  striking  to  her 
heart  to  hear  him  mentioned  thus. 

"He's  been  out  here  directing  the  repairs  himself,  and 
getting  the  place  ready  for  his  mother  and  Lady  Laura; 
but  I  never  saw  him.  They  say  he's  perfectly  stunning. 
Quite  the  lord.     Is  he  so  very  handsome,  do  you  think  ?  " 

"Yes."  Cassandra  looked  away  from  the  girl's  search- 
ing eyes. 

"They  say  he  never  has  married,  and  that  is  fortunate 
too ;  for  he  has  lived  so  long  in  America,  and  never  expecting 
to  come  into  the  title,  he  might  have  married  somebody 
his  own  set  over  here  never  could  have  received,  and  that 
would  have  been  bad,  wouldn't  it.^^" 

Cassandra  turned  and  looked  gravely  at  the  girl.  She 
wished  to  stop  her,  but  could  not  think  hov/  to  do  it.  She 
could  not  bear  to  hear  her  husband  talked  over  in  this  way. 

"They  are  tremendous  swells.  Lady  Thryng  looks 
high  for  him,  and  well  she  may,  for  mother  says  he's 
worthy  of  a  princess,  he's  that  rich  and  high  bred,  too,  for 
all  that  he  was  only  a  doctor  over  in  America.  Mother 
says  it's  very  fortunate  he  never  married  some  common 
sort  over  there.  They  say  Lady  Thryng  wants  him  to 
marry  Lady  Geraldine  Temple's  daughter.  She  is  a  great 
beauty,  and  has  a  pretty  fortune  in  her  own  right,  too. 
They'll  be  rich  enough  to  entertain  the  king  !  And  they 
may  do  it,  too,  some  day." 

Cassandra  sat  still  and  cold.  She  could  not  stop  the 
girl  now.  "Lady  Laura's  coming  out  is  to  be  next  week, 
so  his  lordship  must  be  home  soon.  They  say  it  will  be 
a  very  grand  affair  !  And  I  am  to  see  it  all,  for  mother 
says  she  will  have  a  maid,  and  I  may  go  out  there  to  serve, 
and  I  shall  see  all  the  decorations  and  the  fine  dresses. 
That  will  be  fine,  won't  it,  baby  ?  " 

She  untied  the  blue  beads  and  dangled  them  before  the 
baby's  eyes,  and  he  caught  at  them  and  gurgled  in  baby 
glee.  Cassandra  sat  silent,  rigid,  and  cold,  unheeding  the 
child  or  the  girl,  only  vaguely  hearing  the  chatter. 

"And  that  will  be  grand,  won't  it,  baby  ?    But  he  is  a 


Cassandra  at  Queensderry  ^81 

love,  this  boy !  There  is  Daneshead  Castle  now,  ma'm. 
You  see  it  through  the  trees,  but  the  grounds  are  so  large 
we  have  to  drive  a  good  bit  before  we  are  there." 

The  driver  turned  the  ponies'  heads,  and  they  scampered 
through  a  high  stone  gateway  and  along  a  smooth  road 
which  wound  through  a  dense  wood,  with  green  open 
spaces  interspersed,  where  deer  were  browsing.  All  was 
very  beautiful  and  quiet  and  sweet,  but  Cassandra,  sitting 
with  wide-open  eyes,  gravely  beautiful,  did  not  see  it. 

To  the  girl  everything  was  delightful.  She  had  not  the 
slightest  doubt  that  the  American  lady  was  very  rich.  That 
she  travelled  so  simply  and  alone  was  nothing.  They  all 
did  queer  things  —  the  Americans.  She  was  obtusely 
unconscious  that  she  had  been  speaking  slightingly  of  them 
to  one  of  themselves,  and  she  talked  on  after  the  romantic 
manner  of  girls  the  world  over,  giving  the  gossip  of 
the  inn  parlors  as  she  listened  to  it  evening  after  evening, 
where  the  affairs  of  the  nobility  were  freely  discussed  and 
enlarged  and  commented  upon  with  eager  interest. 

What  was  spoken  in  her  ladyship's  chamber  and  Lady 
Laura's  boudoir  —  their  half -formed  plans  and  aspira- 
tions —  carelessly  dropped  words  and  unfinished  sentences 

—  quickly  travelled  to  the  housekeeper's  parlor  —  to  the 
servant's  table  —  to  the  haunts  of  grooms  and  stable  boys 

—  to  the  farmer's  daughters  —  and  to  the  public  rooms 
of  the  Queensderry  Inn. 

Thus  it  was  Cassandra  heard  tales  of  the  brother  and 
sister  and  mother  of  her  David,  and  of  him  also.  How  it 
was  said  that  once  he  was  engaged  to  a  rich  tradesman's 
daughter  but  had  broken  it  off  and  gone  to  America  against 
the  wishes  of  all  his  family,  and  had  become  a  common 
practitioner  there  to  the  disgust  of  all  his  relatives ;  and 
again  Cassandra  felt  that  she  had  left  a  sweet  and  lovely 
world  behind  her  to  step  into  "Vanity  Fair." 

She  tried  to  hold  fast  her  faith  in  goodness  and  high 
purpose.  She  was  sure  —  sure  —  David  had  been  moved 
by  noble  motives ;  why  should  she  not  trust  him  now  ? 
Did  this  girl  know  him  better  than  she  —  his  wife  .?  Yet, 
in  spite  of  her  valiant  spirit,  two  facts  fell  like  leaden 
weights  upon  her  heart.  David  had  not  told  his  people 
that  he  had  a  wife,  and  they  would  be  offended  that  he  had 
"tied  himself  to  a  common  sort  over  there."     This  David 


282  The  Mountain  Girl 

whom  she  loved  was  so  high  above  her  in  the  eyes  of  all 
his  relatives  and  perhaps  even  in  his  own.  What  —  ah, 
what  could  she  do  !  Might  she  still  hold  him  in  her  heart  ? 
She  could  not  walk  in  upon  them  now  and  betray  him  — 
never  —  never. 

Her  lips  grew  pale,  and  her  head  swam,  but  she  sat  still, 
leaning  a  little  forward  in  the  moving  phaeton,  her  hands 
tightly  clasped  in  her  lap  and  her  babe  unheeded  at  her 
side,  until  the  red  returned  to  her  lips  and  again  burned 
in  a  clearly  defined  spot  against  the  pallor  of  her  cheek. 
She  did  not  know  that  a  strange,  unearthly  beauty  was 
hers.  A  carriage  met  them  filled  with  gay  people.  She 
did  not  notice  them,  but  they  gazed  at  her  and  turned  to 
look  again  as  they  passed. 

"I  say,  you  know  ! "  said  one  of  the  men,  as  they  whirled 
by. 

"There,  that  was  Lady  Geraldine  Temple  in  that  car- 
riage, and  the  young  man  who  stared  so  hard  is  her  son. 
They've  been  paying  a  visit,  or  maybe  they've  brought 
Lady  Clara  to  stay  a  bit.  They  say  both  families  are  keen 
for  the  match  —  and  why  shouldn't  they  be  ?  Oh,  they'll 
entertain  the  king  here  some  day,  and  then  there'll  be  high 
times  at  Daneshead  !" 

An  automobile  flashed  by  them,  and  then  another. 
"There  must  be  a  party  here  to-day,  or  likely  it's  visitors 
dropping  in,  now  it's  getting  toward  tea  time.  It's  all 
right,  ma'm,"  she  added,  as  Cassandra  stirred  uneasily. 
"It  must  be  only  visitors,  or  I  would  have  heard  of  it. 
They're  keeping  open  house  now,  though  they  don't  go 
anywhere  themselves  yet.  You  see  it's  a  year  since  the 
deaths,  so  they  could  mourn  them  all  at  once,  and  not  spin 
it  along.  They  had  to  wait  a  year  before  Lady  Laura's 
coming  out  —  rightly.  Let  the  ponies  walk  now,  driver. 
I  beg  pardon,  ma'm."  The  girl  had  so  taken  possession 
of  Cassandra,  the  baby,  and  the  whole  expedition,  that 
she  gave  the  order  unthinkingly. 

"Yes,  let  them  walk,"  said  Cassandra,  and  drew  a  long 
breath.  She  heard  gay  laughter,  and  caught  sight  through 
the  trees  of  light  dresses  and  wide,  plumed  hats.  Some 
one  sat  on  the  terrace  at  a  table  whereon  was  shining 
silver. 

There,  I  said  so !    That's  Lady  Clara  pouring  tea. 


{(I 


Cassandra  at  Queensderry  283 

I  say,  but  she's  a  beauty  !     Isn't  she  ?     No,  no.     Go  to 
the  front,  driver.     American  ladies  don't  call  at  the  side." 

"There's  a  hautomobile  there,  ma'm." 

"Then  wait  a  moment.     Don't  be  a  stupid." 

Thus,  aided  by  the  innkeeper's  clever  daughter,  Cas- 
sandra at  last  made  her  entrance  properly  and  was  guided 
to  the  presence  of  David's  mother,  who  had  not  joined  her 
guests,  having  but  just  closed  an  interview  with  Mr.  Stret- 
ton.  As  she  saw  Cassandra  standing  in  the  drawing-room 
waiting  her.  Lady  Thryng  came  graciously  forward.  The 
lovely  August  weather  had  tempted  every  one  out  of  doors, 
and  the  great  room  was  left  empty  save  for  these  two, 
David's  mother  and  his  mfe. 

The  beauty  of  other-worldliness  which  had  infused 
Cassandra's  whole  being  as  she  fought  her  silent  battle 
during  the  long  drive,  still  enveloped  her.  If  she  could 
have  followed  her  impulses,  she  would  have  held  out  both 
hands  and  cried  :  "Take  me  and  love  me.  I  am  David's 
wife."  But  she  would  not  —  she  must  not.  Her  heritage 
of  faith  in  goodness  —  both  of  God  and  man  —  kept  her 
heart  open,  and  gave  her  power  to  think  and  act  rightly 
in  this  her  hour  of  terrible  trial ;  even  as  a  little  child, 
being  behind  the  veil  which  separates  the  soul  from  God, 
may,  in  its  innocent  prattle,  utter  words  of  superhuman 
wisdom. 

"I  am  sorry  if  I  have  interrupted  you  when  you  have 
company,"  she  said  slowly.  "I  am  a  stranger  —  an 
American." 

"Ah,  you  Americans  are  a  happy  lot  and  may  go  where 
you  please.  Take  this  seat  by  the  window;  it  is  very 
warm.  My  son  has  been  in  America,  but  he  tells  us  so 
little,  we  are  none  the  wiser  for  that,  about  your  part  of 
the  world." 

I  knew  him  in  America.     That  is  why  I  called." 
Yes.'^"     The  mother  bent  forward  and  regarded  her 
curiously,  attentively. 

"He  lived  very  near  us.  He  did  a  great  deal  of  good  — 
among  the  poor."  She  put  her  hand  to  her  slender  white 
throat,  then  dropped  it  again  in  her  lap.  Then,  looking 
in  Lady  Thryng's  eyes,  she  said:  "I  have  seen  your  pic- 
ture. I  should  have  known  you  from  that,  but  you  are 
more  beautiful." 


if 


284  The  Mountain  Girl 

"Oh!  That  can  hardly  be,  my  dear!  It  was  taken 
many  years  ago,  you  know." 

"Yes,  he  said  so  —  his  lordship  —  only  there  we  called 
him  Doctah  Thryng." 

A  shadow  flitted  over  the  mother's  face.  "He  was  a 
practitioner  over  there  —  never  in  England." 

"That  is  a  pity;  it  is  such  noble  work.  But  perhaps 
he  has  other  things  to  do  here." 

"He  has  —  even  more  noble  work  than  the  practice  of 
medicine." 

"What  does  he  do  here?"  asked  Cassandra,  in  a  low 
voice. 

"He  must  take  part  in  the  affairs  of  government.  Very 
ordinary  men  may  study  and  practise  medicine,  but  unless 
men  who  are  wise,  and  are  nobly  born  and  bred,  make  it 
their  business  to  care  for  the  affairs  of  their  country,  the 
nation  w^ould  sooh  be  wrecked.  That  is  what  saves  Eng- 
land and  makes  her  great." 

"I  see."  Cassandra  sat  silent  then,  and  Lady  Thrjmg 
waited  expectantly  for  her  errand  to  be  declared,  curious 
about  this  beautiful  young  creature  who  had  stepped  into 
her  home  unannounced  from  out  of  the  unknown,  yet 
graciously  kindly  and  unhurried.  "  I  think  I  know.  With 
us  men  are  too  careless.  They  think  it  isn't  necessary, 
I  suppose."  Again  she  paused  with  parted  lips,  as  if  she 
would  speak  on,  but  could  not. 

"With  you,  men  are  too  busy  making  money,  I  am  told. 
It  is  necessary  to  have  a  leisure  class  like  ours." 

"Oh!"  Cassandra  caught  her  breath  and  smiled. 
She  was  thinking  of  the  silver  pot  her  mother  had  enjoined 
her  to  take  with  her,  and  why.  "But  we  do  think  a  great 
deal  of  family ;  even  the  simplest  of  us  care  for  that,  al- 
though we  have  no  leisure  class  —  only  the  loafers.  I'm 
afrai4  you  think  it  very  strange  I  should  come  to  you  in 
this  way,  but  I  —  thought  I  would  like  to  see  Doctah 
Thryng  again,  and  when  I  heard  he  was  not  in  England,  I 
thought  I  would  come  to  you  and  bring  the  messages 
from  those  who  loved  him  when  he  was  with  us.  But 
I  mustn't  stop  now  and  take  your  time.  I'll  write  them 
instead,  only  that  wouldn't  be  like  seeing  him.  He  stayed 
a  whole  year  at  our  place." 

"And  you  came  from  Canada.'*" 


Cassandra  at  Queensderry  285 

"Oh,  no.  A  long  way  from  there.  My  home  is  in 
North  Carolina." 

"Oh,  indeed !  How  very  interesting !  That  must 
have  been  when  he  was  so  ill."  Then,  noticing  Cassandra's 
extreme  pallor,  she  begged  her  most  kindly  to  come  out  on 
the  terrace  and  have  tea;  but  she  would  not.  She  felt 
her  fortitude  giving  way,  and  knew  she  must  hasten.  "But 
you  must,  you  know.  The  heat  and  your  long  ride  have 
made  you  faint." 

"I  —  I'm  afraid  so.     It  —  won't  —  last." 

"Wait,  then.  You  must  take  a  little  wine;  you  need 
it."  Roused  to  sympathy.  Lady  Thryng  left  her  a  mo- 
ment and  returned  immediately  with  a  glass  of  wine,  which 
she  held  to  her  lips  with  her  own  hand.  "There,  you  will 
soon  be  better.  Here  is  a  fan.  It  really  is  very  warm. 
Indeed,  you  must  have  tea  before  you  go." 

She  took  her  passive  hand  and  led  her  out  on  the  terrace 
unresisting,  and  again  Cassandra  was  minded  to  throw  her 
arms  about  the  lovely  woman's  neck,  who  was  so  sweet 
and  kind,  and  sob  on  her  bosom  and  tell  her  all — but  David 
had  his  own  reasons,  and  she  would  not. 

"Do  you  stay  long  in  England?" 

"I  am  going  to-morrow.  Oh  !"  she  exclaimed,  as  they 
stepped  out,  and  she  saw  the  number  of  elaborately  dressed 
guests  moving  about  and  gayly  chatting  and  laughing. 
"I  can't  go  out  there.  I  am  a  strangah."  It  was  a  low 
melancholy  wail  as  she  said  it,  and  long  afterward  Lady 
Thryng  remembered  that  moaning  cry,  "I  am  a  strangah.'* 

"No,  no.  You  are  an  American  and  a  very  beautiful 
one.  Come,  they  will  be  glad  to  meet  you.  Give  me 
your  name  again." 

"Thank  you  —  but  I  must  —  must  go  back."  Sud- 
denly, with  a  cry,  "My  baby,  he  is  mine,"  she  swept 
forward  with  long,  swinging  steps  toward  a  group  who  were 
bending  over  a  rosy-cheeked  girl,  who  was  seated  on  the 
steps  of  the  terrace  with  a  child  in  her  arms.  She  was 
comforting  him  and  cuddling  and  petting  him,  and  those 
around  her  were  exclaiming  as  young  girls  will :  "  Isn't  he 
a  dear  ! "  —  "  Oh,  let  me  hold  him  a  moment ! "  —  '*  There, 
he  is  going  to  cry  again.  No  wonder,  poor  little  chap  ! "  — 
"  Oh,    look    at   his    curls  —  so    cunning  —  give    him    to 


me." 


286  The  Mountain  Girl 

Seeing  his  mother,  he  put  up  his  arms  to  her  and  smiled, 
while  two  tears  rolled  down  his  round  baby  cheeks. 

*'I  found  him  in  the  pony  carriage  with  Hetty  Giles, 
and  he  was  crying  so  —  and  such  a  darling  !  I  just  took 
him  away  —  the  love  !"  cried  Laura.  *'Why,  we  saw  you 
yesterday  at  the  Victoria.  I  could  not  pass  him  by,  you 
remember?" 

The  baby,  one  beaming  smile,  nestled  his  face  bashfully 
in  his  mother's  neck  and  patted  her  cheek,  glancing  side- 
wise  at  his  admirers  through  brimming  tears,  while  Cas- 
sandra, her  eyes  large  and  pathetic,  turned  now  on  Laura, 
now  on  her  mother,  stood  silent,  quivering  like  one  of  her 
own  mountain  creatures  brought  to  bay.  But  she  was 
strengthened  as  she  felt  her  baby  again  in  her  arms,  and  as 
she  stood  thus  looking  about  her,  every  one  became  silent, 
and  she  was  constrained  to  speak.  She  did  not  know 
that  something  in  her  manner  and  appearance  had  com- 
manded silence  —  something  tragic  —  despairing.  It  was 
but  for  an  instant,  then  she  turned  to  Lady  Laura. 

'*  Thank  you  for  comforting  him.  I  ought  not  to  have 
left  him.  I  nevah  did  before,  with  strangahs."  She  tried 
to  bid  Lady  Thryng  good-by,  but  Laura  again  besought 
her  to  stop  and  have  tea. 

"Please  do.  I  fairly  adore  Americans.  I  want  to  talk 
to  you ;   I  mean,  to  hear  you  talk." 

Cassandra  had  mastered  herself  at  last,  and  replied 
quietly  :  "I  don't  guess  I  can  stay,  thank  you.  You  have 
been  so  kind."  Then  she  said  to  Lady  Thryng,  "Good- 
by,"  and  moved  away.  Laura  walked  by  her  side  to  the 
carriage. 

"I  hope  you'll  come  again  sometime,  and  let  me  know 

you." 

"You  are  right  kind  to  say  that.  I  shall  nevah  forget." 
Then,  leaning  down  from  the  carriage  seat,  and  looking 
steadily  in  Laura's  warm,  dark  eyes,  she  added:  "No,  I 
shall  nevah  forget.     May  I  kiss  you?" 

"You  sweet  thing!"  said  the  girl,  impulsively,  and, 
reaching  up,  they  kissed.  Cassandra  said  in  her  heart, 
"For  David,"  and  was  driven  away. 

Laura  found  her  mother  standing  where  they  had  left 
her.  She  had  been  deeply  stirred  by  the  sight  of  Cassandra 
with  the  child  in  her  arms.     Not  that  beautiful  mothers 


Cassandra  at  Queensderry  287 

and  lovely  children  were  rare  in  England;  but  that,  ex- 
cept for  the  children  of  the  poor,  no  little  one  like  this  had 
been  in  her  own  home  or  so  near  her  in  all  the  years  of  her 
widowhood.  It  was  the  sight  of  that  strong  mother  love, 
overpowering  and  sweeping  all  before  it,  recognizing  no 
lesser  call  —  the  secret  and  holy  power  that  lies  in  the 
Christ-mother,  for  all  periods  and  all  peoples  —  she  herself 
had  felt  it  —  and  the  cry  that  had  burst  from  Cassandra's 
lips,  "My  baby  —  he  is  mine."  Tears  stood  in  Lady 
Thryng's  eyes,  and  yet  it  was  such  a  simple  little  thing. 
Mothers  and  babies  ?     Why,  they  were  everywhere. 

"  She  moved  like  a  tragic  queen,"  said  Lady  Clara. 
"What  was  the  matter  ?" 

" Nothing,  only  her  baby  had  been  crying;  but  wasn't 
he  a  love  ?"  said  Lady  Laura. 

"I  say  !     He  was  a  perfect  dear  !"  said  one  and  another. 

"I  don't  care  much  for  babies,"  said  Lady  Clara. 
"They  ought  to  be  trained  to  stay  with  their  nurses  and 
not  cry  after  their  mammas  like  that.  Fancy  having 
to  take  such  a  child  around  with  one  everywhere,  even 
in  making  a  formal  call,  you  know !  Isn't  it  absurd  ? 
American  women  spoil  their  children  dreadfully,  I  have 
heard." 


CHAPTER  XXXI 

IN  WHICH  DAVID  AND  HIS  MOTHER  DO  NOT  AGREE 

The  day  after  Cassandra's  flight  from  Queensderry 
David  returned.  Although  greatly  prolonged,  his  African 
expedition  had  been  successful,  and  he  was  pleased.  He 
had  improved  his  opportunities  to  learn  political  conditions 
and  know  what  might  best  advance  England's  power 
in  that  remote  portion  of  her  possessions. 

Mr.  Stretton  had  informed  him  that  he  might  soon  be 
called  to  a  seat  in  the  House,  and  he  was  glad  to  be  in 
a  measure  prepared  to  hold  opinions  of  his  own  on  a  few, 
at  least,  of  the  vital  issues.  Canada  he  already  knew  well, 
and  to  be  conversant  also  with  the  state  of  affairs  in 
South  Africa  gave  him  greater  confidence. 

The  first  afternoon  of  his  return  he  spent  in  looking  over 
the  changes  which  had  been  in  progress  at  Daneshead 
during  his  absence.  In  spite  of  his  weariness,  he  seemed 
buoyant  and  gay,  more  so,  his  mother  thought,  than  at 
any  time  since  his  return  from  America.  She  said  noth- 
ing about  the  episode  of  Cassandra's  call,  —  possibly  for 
the  time  it  was  forgotten,  —  but  as  they  parted  for  the 
night,  w^hen  they  were  alone  together.  Lady  Thryng  again 
broached  to  her  son  the  subject  of  his  marriage. 

*'We  have  had  a  visit  from  Lady  Clara  Temple,"  she 
said. 

David  lay  upon  a  divan  with  his  hands  clasped  beneath 
his  head,  and  the  light  from  a  reading  lamp  streamed  upon 
his  sunny  hair,  which  always  looked  as  if  some  playful 
breeze  had  just  lifted  it.  His  whole  frame  had  the  sin- 
ewy appearance  of  energy  and  power.  His  mother's 
heart  swelled  with  love  and  pride  as  she  looked  at  his 
smiling,  thoughtful  face,  and  down  upon  his  lean,  strong 
body  that  in  its  lassitude  expressed  the  vigor  of  a  splen- 
did animal  at  rest. 

288 


David  and  his  Mother  289 

Still  more  would  she  have  given  thanks  for  the  resto- 
ration of  this  beloved  son  could  she  have  been  able  to  con- 
trast his  present  state  with  his  condition  when,  ill  and 
discouraged,  he  had  gone  to  the  lonely  log  cabin  in  a 
wilderness,  struggling  to  build  up  both  body  and  spirit, 
far  from  the  sympathy  and  fellowship  of  his  own. 

Now  she  thrilled  with  the  thought  of  what  he  might 
achieve  if  only  he  would,  but  her  heart  misgave  her  that 
he  still  held  some  strange  notions  of  life.  She  thought 
the  surest  way  to  control  his  quixotic  impulses  was  to 
provide  him  with  a  good,  practical  wife,  —  one  who  would 
see  the  world  as  it  is  and  accept  conditions  that  are  stable, 
not  trying  to  move  mountains,  yet  with  sufficient  am- 
bition for  both  her  husband  and  herself.  With  a  wife  and 
children  a  man  could  not  afford  to  be  erratic. 

*'WTiat  were  you  saying,  mother?" 

*'^Vhat  were  you  thinking,  David,  that  you  did  not 
hear  me  ?  I  am  telling  you  we  have  just  had  a  very  de- 
lightful visit  from  Lady  Clara  Temple,  and  Lady  Temple 
and  her  son  have  called." 

David  made  no  reply.  He  seemed  to  think  the  remark 
called  for  none.     "  Well,  David  ?  " 

"Well,  mother  ?  "  and  then :  "I  think  I  will  go  to  bed. 
I  am  rarely  tired,  and  bed  is  the  place  for  me."  He  kissed 
his  mother,  then  took  hold  of  her  chin  and  lifted  her  face 
to  look  in  his  eyes.  "What  is  it,  little  mother,  what  is 
it  ?"  he  asked  gayly  and  obtusely. 

"Aren't  you  a  bit  stupid,  David,  not  to  see  ?  I  wish 
—  I  do  wash  you  could  care  for  Lady  Clara.  She  really 
is  charming." 

"  I  do  care  for  her  —  as  Lady  Clara  Temple.  She  is 
charming,  and,  as  you  say  of  me,  a  bit  stupid.  What 
has  Laura  been  doing  these  two  months  ?  " 

"Preparing  for  her  coming  out  after  her  own  fashion. 
We've  been  a  good  deal  in  town,  but  she  has  a  reckless  way 
of  doing  anything  she  pleases,  quite  regardless." 

"She  is  a  big-hearted  fine  lass,  mother.  Don't  let  her 
ways  trouble  you." 

"She  needs  the  right  influence,  and  Lady  Clara  seems 
to  exert  it  over  her  —  at  least  I  think  she  will  in  time." 

"Ah,  very  good,  let  her.  I  won't  interfere.  Good 
night,  little  mother;  sleep  well.   If  I  am  late  in  the  morning, 


290  The  Mountain  Girl 

don*t  be  annoyed.  I've  had  three  wakeful  nights.  The 
sea  was  very  rough." 

"David  !  "  Lady  Thryng  placed  her  hands  on  his  shoul- 
ders and  held  him,  looking  in  his  eyes.  "  Marry  Lady 
Clara.  You  are  worthy  of  a  princess,  my  son.  You 
can  afford  to  be  ambitious.  The  day  may  come  when 
you  can  entertain  the  king." 

"Now  really,  mother;  I'll  entertain  the  king  with 
pleasure.  He's  a  fine  old  chap.  A  little  gay,  you  know, 
but  quite  the  right  sort.  But  Lady  Clara  is  a  step  too 
high.  She'd  rub  it  into  me  some  day  that  I'd  married 
above  my  station,  you  know.  Good  night.  Dream  of  the 
king,  mother,  but  not  of  Lady  Clara." 

He  sought  his  bed,  and  was  soon  soundly  sleeping, 
content  with  the  thought  that  next  week  he  would  sail 
for  America  and  have  Laura's  coming  out  postponed. 
The  family  festivity  was  following  too  closely  on  the  year 
of  mourning,  at  any  rate.  The  announcement  that  he 
already  had  a  penniless  American  wife  would  naturally 
be  a  blow  to  them,  all  the  more  so  if  his  mother  was 
seriously  cherishing  such  hopes  as  she  had  expressed ; 
but  he  couldn't  be  a  cad.  His  conscience  smote  him  that 
his  conduct  already  bordered  closely  on  the  caddish,  but 
to  be  an  out  and  out  cad,  —  no,  no. 

When  he  awoke,  —  late,  as  he  had  said,  but  refreshed 
and  jubilant,  — the  revelation  he  must  make  seemed  to  him 
less  formidable,  and  he  was  minded  to  make  it  with  no 
more  delay  as  he  tossed  over  his  mail,  while  breakfasting 
in  his  room. 

"Ah,  what  is  this  ?'^  A  letter  in  his  wife's  hand,  bear- 
ing the  Liverpool  postmark  !  Was  she  on  her  way  to  him, 
then  ?  "Good  God  !  "  He  tore  off  the  cover  hastily,  but 
sat  a  moment  with  bowed  head,  his  hand  over  his  eyes, 
before  reading  it. 

"  My  dear  David,  —  My  husband,  forgive  me.  I  have 
done  wrong,  but  I  meant  to  do  right.  They  said  words 
of  you,  —  on  our  mountain,  David,  —  words  I  hated ; 
and  I  lied  to  them  and  came  to  you.  I  told  them  you 
had  sent  for  me.  I  did  it  to  prove  to  them  that  what 
they  were  saying  was  not  true.  I  took  the  money  you 
gave  me  and  came  to  England,  and  now  God  has  punished 


David  and  his  Mother  291 

me,  and  I  am  going  back.  I  know  you  will  be  surprised 
when  I  tell  you  how  wrong  I  have  been.  I  would  not 
write  you  I  had  borne  you  a  little  son,  because  I  did  not 
want  you  to  come  back  to  America  for  his  sake,  but 
for  mine.  My  heart  was  that  proud.  Oh  !  David,  for- 
give me."  David's  face  grew  pale,  and  the  paper  trem- 
bled in  his  hand,  but  he  read  eagerly  on. 

"  My  heart  cries  to  you  all  the  time.  He  is  yours,  David; 
forgive  me.  He  is  very  beautiful.  He  is  like  you.  Your 
sister  held  him  in  her  arms,  and  I  kissed  her  for  love  of 
you,  but  she  did  not  know  why.  She  did  not  guess  the 
beautiful  baby  was  yours  —  your  very  own.  Your 
mother  saw  him,  but  she  did  not  guess  he  was  hers  — 
her  little  grandson.  I  took  him  away  quickly.  They 
might  have  kept  him  if  they  knew.  You  will  let  me  have 
him  a  little  longer,  won't  you,  David  ?  When  he  is  older, 
you  will  have  to  take  him  home  and  educate  him,  but 
now  —  now  —  he  is  all  I  have  of  you.  Soon  the  terrible 
ocean  will  be  between  us  again. 

"It  will  be  just  the  same  in  your  home  now  as  if  I  had 
never  come.  I  did  not  say  I  was  your  wife  —  for  you 
had  not  —  and  I  would  not  tell  them.  I  want  you  to 
know  this,  so  nothing  will  be  changed  by  me.  In  London, 
before  I  knew,  when  I  thought  you  were  there,  when  I 
did  not  understand,  I  wrote  my  name  in  the  hotel  book, 
but  in  Queensderry  something  in  my  heart  stopped  me 
and  I  only  wrote  my  old  name,  Cassandra  Merlin.  I  must 
have  been  beginning  to  understand." 

David  paused  and  dashed  the  tears  from  his  eyes. 
"Poor  little  heart!  Poor  little  heart!"  he  cried.  He 
paced  the  room,  then  tried  to  read  again.  The  letters, 
blurred  by  his  tears,  seemed  to  dance  about  and  run 
together. 

"Now  I  see  it  all  clearly,  David,  and,  after  a  little,  God 
will  help  me  to  live  on  the  happiness  you  brought  me  in 
our  sweet  year  together.  There  was  happiness  for  a 
lifetime  in  that  year.  Comfort  your  heart  with  that 
thought  when  you  think  of  me,  and  do  not  be  too  sad. 

"Oh,  David  !  I  did  not  know  that  to  save  me  from 
marrying  Frale  and  living  a  life  worse  than  death  you 
sacrificed  yourself.  But  you  did  not  need  to  do  it.  After 
knowing  you  and  after  doing  what  he  did  to  you,  I 


292  The  Mountain  Girl 

never  could  have  married  him.  I  only  knew  you  came 
to  me  and  saved  me  from  the  terrible  life  I  might  have 
led,  and  I  took  you  as  from  God.  I  have  seen  the  beau- 
tiful lady  you  should  have  married,  and  I  don't  know 
what  to  do,  nor  how  to  give  you  back  to  yourself.  I 
suppose  there  may  be  a  way,  but  we  have  made  our  vows 
to  each  other  before  God,  and  we  must  do  no  sin.  My 
heart  is  heavy.  I  would  give  you  all,  all,  but  I  can't 
take  back  the  love  I  gave  you.  I  could  die  to  set  you 
free  again,  for  in  that  way  I  could  keep  the  blessed  love 
which  is  part  of  my  soul,  in  heaven  with  me,  only  for  our 
little  son.  My  life  is  his  now,  too,  and  I  have  no  right  to 
die,  not  yet,  even  to  set  you  free. 

"Oh,  David,  David  !  This  must  be  the  shadow  I  saw 
clouding  our  long  path  of  light.  In  some  terrible  way 
it  has  been  laid  on  me  to  do  you  a  wrong  in  the  eyes  of 
your  family  and  all  your  world.  Your  mother  told  me 
you  had  work  to  do  for  your  country,  great  and  glorious 
work.  I  believe  it,  and  you  must  do  it  and  not  let  an 
ignorant  mountain  girl  stand  in  your  way. 

*'0h  !  I  can't  think  it  out  to-night.  When  I  try  to  see 
a  way,  I  can't.  The  visions  are  lost  to  my  eyes,  and  they 
may  never  come  again.  The  windows  of  my  soul  are 
clouded,  and  the  clear  seeing  is  gone,  because,  David,  I 
know  it  is  myself  that  comes  between.  I  can  only  cry 
to  you  now  to  forgive  me.  Don't  let  me  mar  your  great, 
good  life.  Don't  try  to  come  back  to  me.  Stay  on  and 
live  your  life  and  do  your  work,  and  I  will  keep  your  little 
son  safe  for  you,  and  teach  him  to  love  you  and  call  you 
father,  and  he  shall  be  called  David.  He  has  no  name 
yet ;  I  was  waiting  for  you.  It  will  only  be  a  little  while 
before  he  will  need  you,  then  you  may  take  him.  Your 
mother  and  sister  will  love  him.  He  will  be  a  great  boy 
full  of  laughter  and  light,  like  you,  David,  and  then  your 
mountain  girl  wife  will  be  gone  and  your  sacrifice  at  an 
end,  and  your  reward  will  come  at  last. 

"I  will  go  back  and  stay  quietly  where  I  belong.  Don't 
send  me  any  more  money.  I  have  enough  to  take  me 
home,  and  I  can  earn  all  we  need  after  that.  Earning 
will  help  me  by  giving  me  something  to  do  for  our  baby 
and  so  for  you.  Sometimes  I  will  send  you  word  that  all 
is  well  with  him,  but  do  not  write  to  me  any  more.     It 


David  and  his  Mother  ^93 

will  be  easier  for  you  so,  and  don't  let  your  heart  be  too 
much  troubled  for  me,  David.  It  will  interfere  with  your 
power  and  usefulness  in  your  own  world.  Grieving  is 
like  fire  set  to  a  great  tree.  It  burns  the  heart  out  of  it 
first,  and  leaves  the  rest.  A  man  must  not  be  like  that. 
With  a  woman  it  is  different.  Be  glad  that  you  did  save 
me  and  brought  me  all  these  months  of  sweet,  sweet 
happiness.     I  will  live  on  the  remembrance. 

"People  have  to  bear  the  separation  of  death,  and  we 
will  call  the  ocean  that  divides  us  Death,  for  our  two 
worlds  are  divided  by  it.  I  sail  to-morrow.  You  took 
me  into  your  heart  to  save  me,  and  now,  David  my  love, 
I  go  out  of  your  heart  to  save  you,  and  give  you  back 
to  your  own  life.  Some  day  the  cords  that  bind  us  to 
each  other,  the  cords  our  vows  have  made,  will  part  and 
set  you  free.  Good-by,  good-by,  David  my  heart, 
David  my  love,  David,  David,  good-by. 

"  Cassandra  Merlin." 

For  a  long  instant  David  sat  with  the  letter  crushed  in 
his  hand,  then  suddenly  awoke  to  energetic  action. 

"To-day.?  When  does  the  boat  leave?  Good  God! 
there  may  be  time."  He  rang  for  a  servant  and  began 
tossing  his  clothing  together.  "  Curses  on  me  for  a  cad 
—  a  boor  —  a  lout —  Why  did  I  leave  my  mail  until 
this  morning  and  then  oversleep  !  Clark,"  he  said, 
as  the  man  appeared,  "tell  Hicks  to  bring  the  machine 
around  immediately,  then  come  for  my  bag." 

"Beg  pardon,  but  the  machine's  out  of  order,  my  lord, 
and  her  ladyship's  just  going  out  in  the  carriage." 

"Why  is  it  out  of  order?  Hicks  is  a  fool.  Ask  Lady 
Thryng  to  wait.  No,  pack  my  bag  and  send  my  boxes 
on  after  me  as  they  are.     I'll  speak  to  her  myself." 

He  threw  off  his  jacket,  thrust  his  cap  in  his  pocket,  and 
dashed  away,  pulling  on  his  coat  as  he  went,  holding  the 
crushed  pages  of  the  letter  in  his  hand.  He  overtook  his 
mother  as  she  was  walking  down  the  terrace. 

" Mother,  wait,"  he  cried,  "I'm  going  with  you,  Where's 
Laura  ?  " 

"She  was  coming.     I  can't  think  what  is  delaying  her." 

David  hurried  on  to  the  carriage.  "  Get  in,  mother, 
I'll  take  her  place.     Get  in,  get  in.     We  must  be  off." 


294  The  Mountain  Girl 

"David,  are  you  out  of  your  head  ?  " 

*'  Yes,  mother.  Drive  on,  drive  on.  I  must  catch 
the  first  train  for  Liverpool  —  I  may  catch  it.  Put  the 
horses  through,  John.  Make  them  sweat,'*  he  said,  lean- 
ing out  of  the  carriage  window. 

*' Explain  yourself,  David.     Are  you  in  trouble  .f*" 

*'Yes,  mother.     Wait  a  little." 

She  looked  at  her  son  and  saw  his  mouth  set,  his  eyes 
stern  and  anguished,  and  she  placed  her  hand  gently  on 
his  as  they  were  being  whirled  away.  "Your  bags  are 
not  in,  David,  if  you  are  going  a  journey." 

"Clark  will  follow  with  them,  and  I  can  wait  in  Liver- 
pool, if  I  can  only  catch  this  boat." 

"David,  explain.  If  you  can't,  then  let  me  read  this," 
she  pleaded,  touching  the  letter  in  his  hand;  but  he 
clutched  it  the  tighter. 

"No  one  may  read  this,  not  even  you."  He  pressed 
the  crumpled  sheets  to  his  lips,  then  folded  them  care- 
fully away.  "It's  just  that  I've  been  a  cad  —  a  fiendish 
cad  and  an  idiot  in  one.  I  thought  myself  a  man  of  high 
ideals  —     My  God,  I  am  a  cad  ! " 

"David,  you  sacrificed  yourself  to  ideals,  but  you  are 
still  a  boy  and  have  much  to  learn.  When  men  try  to 
set  new  laws  for  themselves  and  get  out  of  the  ordinary, 
they  are  more  than  apt  to  make  fools  of  themselves,  and 
may  do  positive  harm.     What  is  it  now  ?  " 

"Can't  you  get  over  the  ground  any  faster,  John?" 
he  cried,  thrusting  his  head  again  out  of  the  window. 
"These  horses  are  overfed  and  lazy,  like  all  the  English 
people.  Why  was  the  machine  out  of  order  ?  Hicks 
is  a  fool  —  I  say  !"  He  put  his  hand  inside  his  collar 
and  pulled  and  worked  it  loose.  "We  are  all  hidebound 
here.     Even  our  clothes  choke  us." 

"David,  tell  me  the  truth." 

"I  am  telling  you  the  truth.  I  ain  a  cad,  I  say.  And 
you  —  you,  too,  are  a  part  of  the  system  that  makes 
cads  of  us  all." 

"I  am  your  mother,  David,"  said  Lady  Thryng, 
reprovingly. 

"You  have  reason  to  be  proud  of  your  son!  Oh! 
curse  me  !  I  won't  be  more  of  a  cad  than  I  am  now  by 
laying  the  blame  on  you.     I  could  have  helped  it,  but 


David  and  his  Mother  295 

you  couldn't.  We  are  born  and  bred  that  way,  over  here. 
The  petty  lines  of  distinction  our  ancestors  drew  for  us, 
—  we  bow  down  and  worship  them,  and  say  God  drew 
them.  Over  here  a  man  hides  the  sun  with  his  own 
hand  and  then  cries  out,  'Where  is  it.^'" 

"I  would  comfort  you  if  I  could,  but  this  sounds  very 
much  like  ranting.  I  thought  you  had  outlived  that  sort 
of  thing,  my  son." 

"Thank  God,  no.  I've  been  very  hard  pressed  of  late, 
but  I've  not  outlived  it." 

*'You  will  tell  me  this  trouble  —  now  —  before  you 
leave  me  "^  You  must,  dear  boy."  He  took  the  hand 
she  put  out  to  him,  and  held  it  in  silence  ;  then,  inco- 
herently, in  a  voice  humbled  and  low,  —  almost  lost  in 
the  rumbling  of  the  carriage,  —  he  told  her.  It  was  a 
revelation  of  the  soul,  and  as  the  mother  listened  she 
too  suffered  and  wept,  but  did  not  relent. 

Cassandra's  cry,  "I  am  a  strangah!"  sounded  in  her 
ears,  but  her  sorrow  was  for  her  son.  Yes,  she  was  a 
stranger,  and  had  wisely  taken  herself  back  to  her  own 
place  ;  what  else  could  she  do  ?  Was  it  not  in  the  nature 
of  a  Providence  that  David  had  been  delayed  until  after 
her  departure  ?  The  duty  now  devolved  upon  herself 
to  comfort  him  without  further  reproof,  but  nevertheless 
to  make  him  see  and  do  his  duty  in  the  position  he  had 
been  called  to  fill. 

I  "Of  course  she  has  charm,  David,  and  evidently  good 
sense  as  well." 

"How  do  you  mean.^" 

"To  perceive  the  inevitable  and  return  without  fuss 
or  complaint  to  her  own  station  in  life." 

For  an  instant  he  sat  stunned,  and  ere  he  could  give 
utterance  to  his  rage,  she  resumed,  "Naturally,  marriage 
now,  in  your  own  class  can't  be;  you'll  simply  have 
to  live  as  a  bachelor."  David  groaned.  "Why,  my 
son,  many  do,  of  their  own  choice,  and  you  have  man- 
aged to  be  happy  during  this  year." 

He  glanced  at  his  watch.     "Eleven  o'clock,  —  can't  —  " 

"There's  no  use  urging  the  horses  so;  we  can't  make 
it." 

"We  may,  mother,  we  may."  He  half  rose  as  if  he 
would  leap  from  the  vehicle.     "I  could  go  faster  on  foot. 


296  The  Mountain  Girl 

There's  a  quarter  of  an  hour  yet  before  the  Liverpool 
express.     John,  can't  we  get  on  faster  than  this?" 

"No,  my  lord.  One  of  the  'orses  has  picked  up  a 
stone.  If  you'll  'old  'em  I'll  dig  it  out  in  'alf  a  minute, 
my  lord." 

David  sprang  out  and  took  the  reins.  "Where's  the 
footman  .f^"  he  asked  testily. 

"You  left  'im  behind,  my  lord.  He  was  'elping  Lady 
Laura  cut  roses." 

"  David,  this  is  useless.  The  last  train  from  London 
went  through  an  hour  ago  and  we  haven't  ten  minutes  for 
the  next.    Order  him  to  return  and  we'll  consider  calmly." 

David  laughed  bitterly,  and  only  sprang  into  the  coach 
and  shut  the  door  with  a  crash.  "  Drive  on,  John,"  he 
shouted  through  the  window,  and  again  they  were  off  at  a 
mad  gallop. 

His  mother  turned  and  looked  at  him  astounded.  "  Let 
me  read  what  she  has  written  you,  my  son,"  she  implored, 
half  frightened  at  his  frenzy. 

"  It's  of  no  use  for  you  to  read  it.  We  can't  talk  now, 
not  rationally." 

"  Then  tell  him  not  to  drive  so  furiously,  so  we  can  hear 
each  other." 

*'  I  would  avoid  useless  discussion,  mother,  but  you 
force  it."  An  instant  he  paused,  and  his  teeth  ground 
together  and  his  jaw  set  rigidly,  then  he  continued  with  a 
savage  force  that  appalled  her,  throwing  out  short  sen- 
tences like  daggers.  "  Lord  H brings  home  an  Ameri- 
can wife.  His  family  are  well  pleased.  She  is  every  where 
received.  Her  father  is  a  rich  brewer.  Her  brother  has 
turned  out  his  millions  from  the  business  of  pork  packing. 
The  stench  from  his  establishment  polutes  miles  of  coun- 
try, but  does  not  reach  England  —  why  ?  Because  of  the 
disinfectant  process  of  transmuting  their  greasy  American 
dollars  into  golden  English  sovereigns.     There's  justice." 

"  Be  reasonable,  David.  Their  estates  were  involved 
to  the  last  degree  and  those  sovereigns  saved  the  family. 
Without  them  they  would  have  passed  out  of  their  pos- 
session utterly,  and  been  divided  among  our  rich  trades- 
people, and  the  family  would  have  descended  rapidly  to 
the  undergrades.  It  goes  to  show  the  value  of  birth,  what 
is  more,  and  how  those  Americans,  who  made^  a  pretence 


David  and  his  Mother  ^97 

long  ago  of  scorning  birth  and  title  and  casting  it  all  off, 
are  glad  enough  now  to  buy  their  way  back  again,  if  not 
for  themselves,  for  their  children.  But,  David,  for  a  man 
to  voluntarily  degrade  his  family  by  marrying  beneath 
him,  with  no  such  need  as  that  of  Lord  H ,  of  ulti- 
mately by  that  very  means  lifting  it  up  is  —  is  —  inexpres- 
sible —  why  —  !     In  the  case  of  Lord  H there  was  a 

certain  nobility  in  marrying  beneath  him." 

"  Beneath  him  !  For  me,  I  married  above  me,  over  all 
of  us,  when  I  took  my  sweet,  clean  mountain  girl.     The 

nobility  of  Lord  H is  unique.    Lady  H made  a 

poor  bargain  when  she  left  the  mingled  stenches  of  brew- 
ing and  butchering  to  step  into  the  moral  stench  which 
depleted  the  Stonebreck  estates." 

*'  You  are  not  like  my  son,  David.     You  are  violent." 

"  Your  son  has  been  a  cad.  Now  he  is  a  man,  and 
must  either  be  violent  or  weep."  He  looked  away  from 
her  out  at  the  flying  hedgerows,  then  took  up  the  fruit- 
less discussion  again,  striving  with  more  patience  to  arouse 
in  his  mother  a  sense  of  the  utter  w^orldliness  of  her  stand. 
She  met  him  at  every  point  with  the  obtuse  and  age-long 
arguments  of  her  class.  When  at  last  he  cried  out,  "  But 
what  of  my  son,  mother,  my  little  son,  and  the  heir  to  all 
this  grandeur  which  means  so  much  to  you  ?  Her  eye- 
lids quivered  and  she  looked  down,  merely  saying,  "  His 
mother  has  offered  you  a  solution  to  that  difficulty  which 
seems  to  me  the  only  wise  one.  You  say  she  proposes  to 
keep  him  a  year  or  two  and  then  send  him  to  us." 

*'  Ah,  you  are  like  steel,  mother."  David  spoke  plead- 
ingly, *'  You  thought  him  a  beautiful  child  ?  " 

*'  I  did,  and  a  wholesome  one,  which  goes  to  show  that 
you  may  safely  trust  him  with  her  for  a  time.  Moreover,  his 
mother  has  a  right  to  him  and  the  comfort  she  may  find 
in  him  for  a  few  years.  You  see  I  would  be  quite  just  to 
her.  I  do  not  accuse  her  of  being  designing  in  marrying 
you.  No  doubt  it  was  quite  your  own  fault.  It  is  a  posi- 
tion you  two  young  people  rushed  into  romantically  and 
most  foolishly,  and  you  must  both  suffer  the  consequences. 
It  is  sad,  but  it  must  be  regarded  in  the  light  of  hard 
common  sense,  and  my  ungrateful  task  seems  to  be  to 
place  it  in  that  light  for  both  your  sakes." 

Still  David  watched  the  hedgerows  with  averted  face. 


298  The  Mountain  Girl 

"  You  are  listening,  David  ?  " 

"  Yes,  mother,  yes.     Common  sense  you  said." 

"Can't  you  see,  that  to  bring  her  here,  where  she  does 
not  belong —  where  she  never  will  be  received  as  belong- 
ing, even  though  she  is  your  wife  —  will  only  cause 
suffering  to  you  both  ?  Eventually  misunderstandings 
will  arise,  then  will  come  alienation  and  unhappiness. 
Then  again,  yours  must  be  in  a  measure  a  public  life, 
unless  you  mean  to  shirk  responsibility.  Has  your 
country  no  claim  on  you  ?  " 

"I  have  no  thought  of  shirking  my  duty,  and  am 
prepared  to  think  and  act  also — " 

"You  wish  it  to  be  effective  .f*  Has  it  never  occurred 
to  you  how  your  avenues  will  be  cut  off  if  you  marry  a 
wife  beneath  your  class  ?  " 

"What  in  God's  name  will  my  wife  have  to  do  with 
England's  African  policy.'^     Damme — " 

"David!" 

"Mother  —  I  beg  your  pardon  — " 

"She  may  have  everything  to  do  with  it.  No  man 
can  stand  alone  and  foist  his  ideas  upon  such  a  body  of 
men,  without  backing.  Instead  of  hampering  yourself 
with  an  ignorant  mountain  girl  from  America,  you  should 
have  allied  yourself  to  a  strong  family  of  position  here,  if 
you  would  be  a  power  in  England.  What  sort  of  a  Lady 
Thryng  will  your  present  wife  make  ?  What  kind  of  a 
leader  socially  in  your  own  class  ?  You  might  better  try 
to  place  a  girl  from  the  bogs  of  Ireland  at  the  head  of  your 
table." 

Again  David's  rage  surged  through  him  in  a  hot  wave, 
but  he  controlled  himself.  "  You  admitted  Cassandra 
has  both  beauty  and  charm  ?** 

"Would  my  son  have  been  attracted  to  her  else? 
Nevertheless,  what  I  say  stands.     As  a  help  to  you — " 

"You  have  done  your  duty,  mother.  I  will  say 
this  for  you  —  that  for  sophistry  undiluted,  a  woman 
of  the  present  day  who  stands  where  you  do,  can 
out-Greek  the  ancients.  How  is  it  we  see  so  differ- 
ently ?  Is  it  that  I  am  like  my  father?  How  did  he 
see  things  ?  " 

"  Your  father  was  as  much  a  nobleman  as  your  uncle. 
Only  by  the  accident  of  birth  was  he  differently  placed. 


David  and  his  Mother  299 

Did  I  never  tell  you  that  but  for  his  death  he  would  have 
been  created  bishop  of  his  diocese  ?     So  you  see — " 

**  I  see.  By  dying  he  just  escaped  a  bishopric.  Did  it 
make  a  difference  in  his  reception  up  above  —  do  you 
think  ?  " 

*'0h,  David,  David!" 

*'I'm  sorry  mother  —  never  mind.  We're  nearly  there 
and  I  have  something  I  must  say  to  you  before  I  leave 
you  to  end  this  discussion  forever.  There  are  two  kinds 
of  men  in  this  world,  —  one  sort  is  made  by  his  circum- 
stances, and  the  other  makes  his  circumstances.  You 
would  respect  your  son  more  if  he  belonged  to  the  first 
variety,  but  I  tell  you  no.  I  will  make  my  own  condi- 
tions. Before  all  else,  I  am  a  man.  My  lordship  was 
thrust  upon  me.  Don't  interrupt,  I  beg,  I  know  all 
you  would  say,  but  you  do  not  know  all  I  would  say — 
My  birth  gave  it  to  me  certainly,  but  a  cruel  and  bloody 
war  was  the  means  by  which  it  came  to  me.  Very  well. 
I  will  take  it  and  the  responsibility  which  it  entails; 
but  the  cruelty  that  brought  me  my  title  is  ended  and  in 
no  form  shall  it  be  continued,  social  or  otherwise.  I  hold 
to  the  rights  of  my  manhood.  I  will  bring  to  England 
whom  I  please  as  my  wife,  and  my  world  shall  recognize 
her,  and  you  will  receive  her  because  I  bring  her,  and  be- 
cause she  will  stand  head  and  soul  above  any  one  you 
have  here  to  propose  for  me.  Here  we  are,  mother 
dear.  One  kiss  ?  Thank  you,  thank  you.  Postpone 
Laura's  coming  out  until  —  I  return  —  which  will  be  — 
when  —  vou  know." 

He  leaped  from  the  carriage  before  it  had  time  to  halt, 
and  ran,  but  alas  !  bajffled  and  enraged  at  his  ill  success, 
he  stood  on  the  platform  and  watched  the  train  pull 
out.     It  was  only  a  slow  local  puffing  away  there. 

"Liverpool  express  left  five  minutes  ago,  my  lord," 
said  the  guard. 

His  mother  leaned  out,  watching  him  with  sad,  yet 
eager  eyes,  satisfied  that  it  should  be  so.  He  might  re- 
turn now,  and  there  was  by  no  means  an  end  to  her 
opposition. 


CHAPTER   XXXII 

IN   WHICH    CASSANDRA    BRINGS   THE   HEIR   OF    DANESHEAD 
CASTLE    BACK   TO    HER    HILLTOP,    AND    THE    SHADOW    LIFTS 

"Cassandry  Merlin,  whar  did  you  drap  from  ?  "  cried 
the  Widow  Farwell,  as  she  looked  up  from  the  supper  she 
was  preparing  at  the  great  fireplace,  and  saw  her  daughter 
in  the  doorway  with  her  baby.  Her  old  face  radiated 
light  and  warmth  and  love  as  she  took  them  both  in  her 
arms.     "Whar's  David  .^'; 

Cassandra  smiled  wearily,  returning  her  mother's  kiss 
and  yielding  her  the  baby.  "You'll  have  to  be  satisfied 
with  me  and  little  son,  mother.  David  was  still  in  Africa, 
so  I  came  home  again."  She  spoke  as  if  a  trip  to  England 
were  a  casual  little  matter,  and  this  was  all  the  explana- 
tion she  gave  that  night.  "I  got  the  hotel  carriage  to 
bring  me  up  from  the  station." 

The  mother,  with  quaint  simplicity,  accepted  it,  asking 
no  troublesome  questions.  If  David  was  not  there,  why 
should  not  her  daughter  return.  After  their  supper  to- 
gether, in  the  warm,  starlit  evening,  each  member  of 
the  family  carrying  something  for  the  traveller's  comfort, 
they  all  climbed  up  to  Cassandra's  cabin,  and  the  old  life 
began  as  if  it  had  suffered  no  interruption.  Cassandra 
so  filled  the  pauses  with  questions  of  all  that  had  happened 
during  her  absence  that  it  was  only  after  her  mother  was 
in  bed  and  dropping  off  to  sleep  she  remembered  ques- 
tions of  her  own  that  had  been  unasked,  or  left  unan- 
swered. 

The  next  day  Cassandra  pleaded  weariness  and  stayed 
in  her  cabin,  sending  Martha  down  for  her  necessary 
supplies,  and  quietly  occupying  herself  with  setting  her 
simple  home  in  its  accustomed  order.  The  day  after, 
she  spent  overlooking  the  little  farm  with  Cotton,  and 
hearing  from  him  all  about  the  animals.  The  cows,  two 
little  calves,  Frale's  colt,  and  her  own  filly,  and  how  "some 

300 


The  Shadow  Lifts  301 

ol'  houn'  dog'*  had  got  into  the  sheep-pen  and  killed  the 
mother  sheep,  and  "Marthy"  had  brought  the  twin 
lambs  up  by  hand.  And  while  Cassandra  busied  herself 
thus,  the  widow  kept  charge  of  the  little  grandson,  warm- 
ing her  heart  with  his  baby  ways,  petting  him  and  solacing 
herself  for  his  long  absence. 

Thus  the  first  days  were  lived  through,  and  no  further 
explanation  made,  for  something  held  Cassandra  silent 
in  a  strange  waiting  suspense.  It  was  not  hope,  for  she 
felt  that  she  had  taken  a  stand  which  was  conclusive, 
and  there  was  nothing  more  for  which  to  hope.  What 
else  could  she  do,  and  what  could  David  do  ^  The  con- 
ditions were  made  for  them ;  each  must  bide  in  his  own 
world,  and  she  had  named  the  ocean  which  divided  them, 
**Death." 

At  night  she  did  not  weep,  for  weeping  made  her  ill, 
and  she  must  conserve  her  strength  for  her  little  son,  so 
she  lay  staring  out  at  the  stars.  Sometimes  she  found 
herself  holding  her  breath  and  listening,  —  half  lifting 
her  head  from  her  pillow,  —  but  listening  for  what  ? 
Then  she  would  lean  over  her  baby's  cradle,  and  hear 
his  soft  breathing,  trying  to  make  herself  think  she  was 
listening  for  that  and  not  for  David's  step.  Then  she 
would  lie  back  and  try  again  to  sleep,  and  her  heart  would 
cry  to  God  to  give  her  peace,  and  let  her  rest.  So  the 
long  nights  passed,  tearlessly  and  sleeplessly. 

On  the  boat  she  had  slept,  lulled  by  its  rocking  and 
swaying,  but  here  in  her  home  —  in  her  accustomed 
routine  —  sleep  had  fled,  and  old  thoughts  and  dreams 
came  like  the  dead  to  haunt  her.  The  paleness  which 
had  come  upon  her  in  London,  and  which  the  sea  breeze 
had  supplanted  with  fleeting  roses,  returned,  and  she 
moved  about  looking  as  if  only  her  wraith  had  come  back 
to  its  old  haunts. 

On  the  third  day  after  Cassandra's  return,  David 
found  himself  climbing  the  laurel  path  a  far  different 
man  from  the  one  who,  two  years  before,  had  slowly 
and  wearily  toiled  up  to  the  little  house  of  logs  which  was 
to  be  his  shelter.  With  strong,  free  step  and  heart  up- 
lifted and  glad,  he  now  climbed  that  winding  path.  He 
had  conquered  the  ills  of  his  body,  and  his  spirit  had  lived 
and  loved,  and  he  had  learned  to  know  happiness  from 


302  The  Mountain  Girl 

its  counterfeit.  He  had  gone  out  and  seen  men  chasing 
phantoms  and  shadows  thinking  therein  to  find  joy  —  joy 
—  the  need  of  the  world  —  one  in  a  coronet,  one  in  a 
crown,  and  the  beggar  in  a  golden  sovereign  —  while  he  — 
he  had  found  it  in  his  own  heart  and  in  Cassandra's  eyes. 

David  had  passed  the  Fall  Place,  seeing  no  one  ;  for  the 
widow  had  ridden  over  to  spend  the  day  with  Sally  Carew, 
her  niece  was  in  the  spring-house  skimming  cream,  while 
Cotton  was  dawdling  in  the  corn  patch  whistling  and 
pulling  the  ripened  ears  from  the  stalks.  A  cool  breeze 
had  dispelled  the  heat  of  the  September  afternoon,  and 
the  hills  were  already  beginning  to  don  their  gorgeous 
apparel  after  the  summer's  drouth ;  their  wonderful 
beauty  struck  him  anew  and  steeped  his  senses  with  their 
charm. 

If  only  gjl  was  well  with  his  wife  —  his  wife  and  his 
little  son  !  His  heart  beat  so  madly  as  he  neared  the 
thicket  of  laurel  where  once  he  had  stood  to  w^atch  her 
moving  about  his  cabin,  that  he  was  forced  to  pause; 
and  again  he  saw  her,  standing  in  her  homespun  dress, 
strongly  relieved  against  the  whiteness  of  the  canvas 
room  beyond — but  this  time  not  alone —  Ah,  not  alone  ! 
Holding  his  little  son  in  her  arms,  her  body  swaying  with 
rhythmic  motion,  lulling  him  to  drowsiness  and  sleep, 
she  stooped  to  lay  him  in  the  rude  little  cradle  box. 

David  trembled  as  he  watched,  and  dashed  the  tears 
from  his  eyes,  but  could  not  move  to  break  too  soon  this 
breathless,  poignant  spell  of  gladness.  Suddenly  he 
could  wait  no  longer,  but  his  feet  clung  to  the  earth  when 
he  would  move,  and  his  mouth  went  dry.  Ah,  could  he 
never  reach  her  ?  He  stood  holding  out  his  arms,  when, 
oh,  wonder  of  wonders  !  she  raised  herself  and  stood  as 
if  listening,  then,  moving  swiftly,  walked  from  the  cabin 
and  came  to  him  as  if  she  had  heard  him  call,  although 
he  had  made  no  sound  —  her  arms  outstretched  to  him 
as  were  his  to  her. 

She  did  not  cry  out,  but  with  parted  lips  and  radiant, 
glowing  face,  fled  to  him  and  was  clasped  to  his  heart. 
She  could  feel  its  beating  against  her  breast,  and  his 
silence  spoke  to  her  through  his  eyes,  which  saw  not  her 
face  but  her  soul ;  his  lips  brought  the  roses  to  her  cheeks 
as  the  sea  breezes  had  done  —  roses  that  came  and  fled 


The  Shadow  Lifts  303 

and  came  again  —  until  at  last  it  was   Cassandra  who 
spoke  first. 

"I  want  you  to  see  him,  David." 

"Yes,  yes,  my  wife,"  was  all  he  said,  his  eyes  on  hers, 
but  he  did  not  move. 

"I  want  you  to  see  our  little  son,  David."  A  strange 
pang  shot  through  his  heart.  Still  he  stood,  holding  her 
and  marvelling  at  himself.  What !  Was  it  that  this  young 
usurper  had  stolen  into  his  place  ? 

"Love  is  selfish,  dear.  Let  me  recover  from  one  joy 
before  you  overwhelm  me  with  another.  First,  I  must 
have  my  own,  and  know  that  it  is  all  mine." 

"I  don't  understand,  David.  I  can't  wait.  Oh! 
David  — David!" 

"You  turn  my  name  to  music  with  your  tones  lingering 
over  it.     I  had  forgotten  how  sweet  it  was." 

"But  I  don't  understand,  David.  Come  and  see  him." 
And  as  she  drew  him  forward,  they  moved  as  one  being, 
not  two. 

"No,  you  don't  understand,  thank  God.  But  I  will 
teach  you  something  you  never  knew.  Love  is  not  only 
blind,  dearest ;  he  is  a  greedy,  selfish  little  god." 

Then  she  laughed  happily,  holding  him  at  arm's-length 
and  looking  in  his  eyes.  "I  know  it.  I  know  it.  I 
found  it  out  all  by  myself.  Didn't  I  tell  you  in  my  letter  ? 
Oh,  David,  so  was  I !"  She  drew  him  to  her  again  and 
nestled  her  face  in  his  bosom.  "I  was  jealous  of  our  little 
son.  I  wanted  you,  David  —  Oh  !  I  wanted  you."  At 
last  came  the  tears,  the  blessed  human  tears  which  she  had 
held  back  so  long.  But  now  they  did  no  harm  except  to 
drench  her  husband's  gray  tie,  and  they  brought  a  lovely 
flush  to  her  face.  "I  can't  stop,  David;  I  can't  stop.  I 
haven't  cried  for  so  long,  and  now  I  can't  stop." 

"Sweetheart,  don't  try  to  stop.  Cry  it  all  out.  Wash 
the  stains  from  me  of  the  cruel  old  world  where  I  have  been ; 
cleanse  me  so  that  I  may  see  as  clearly  as  you  see ;  but  you 
would  have  to  cry  forever  to  do  that,  wouldn't  you,  sweet  ? 
And  soon  you  must  laugh  again." 

He  clasped  and  comforted  her  as  she  was  used  to  comfort 
her  baby,  soothing  her  and  drying  her  eyes  with  his  own 
handkerchief.  "Yours  isn't  large  enough  for  such  a 
flood,  is  it,  sweet  ?  " 


304  The  Mountain  Girl 

"No,  a — a  —  and  I  —  I  can-can't  find  mine,"  she 
sobbed.  "I  —  I  —  left  it  tucked  under  baby's  chin  — 
and  now  I've  spoiled  your  pretty  gray  tie." 

"  Bless  you  !     They  are  my  tears,  and  it  is  my  tie  — " 

'*  David  !     He  is  crying  —  hark  ! " 

*' Helping  his  mother,  is  he  "^  Come  then,  his  father  will 
comfort  him." 

"Hear  him.  Isn't  it  a  sweet  little  cry,  David .f^"  She 
smiled  at  him  from  under  tear- wet  lashes. 

"Why,  bless  you  again  !  Yours  was  a  sweet  little  cry." 
They  w^ent  in,  and  he  bent  over  the  odd  little  cradle  and 
lifted  the  child  tenderly  from  its  soft  nest.  The  wailing 
ceased,  and  the  fatherhood  awoke  in  him  and  laughed  with 
joy  as  he  held  the  warm  little  body  to  his  heart,  wherein 
now,  he  knew,  lay  the  key  of  life  —  the  complete  and 
rounded  love,  God's  gift  to  man,  to  be  cherished  when 
found,  and  fought  for  and  held  in  the  holy  of  holies  of  his 
own  soul. 

"He  isn't  afraid,  you  see,  David.  How  he  stares  at 
you  !  Does  he  feel  it  in  his  own  little  heart  that  you  are 
his  father  ?  I  have  whispered  it  to  him  a  thousand, 
thousand  times.  Sit  here  with  him,  David,  and  I'll  make 
you  some  tea."  She  busied  herself  with  the  tea  things 
—  the  old  life  beginning  anew  —  with  a  new  interest. 

"I  always  make  it  just  as  you  taught  me  that  first  day 
when  I  came  up  here  so  choked  with  trouble  I  couldn't 
speak.     You  always  brought  me  good,  David." 

He  saw  as  he  watched  her  that  some  new  and  subtile 
charm  had  been  added  to  her  personality.  Was  it  mother- 
hood that  had  given  it  to  her,  or  the  long  year  of  patient 
waiting  and  trusting;  or  had  she  passed  through  depths 
of  which  he  as  yet  knew  nothing,  to  cause  this  evanescent 
breath  of  pathos  ?  He  felt  and  knew  it  was  all  of  these. 
What  must  she  have  endured  as  she  wrote  that  letter  ! 

David  fell  easily  and  happily  into  his  life  on  the  moun- 
tain again  —  not  the  English  lord,  but  the  vital,  human 
being,  the  man  in  splendid  possession  of  himself  and  his 
impulses,  holding  sacred  his  rights  as  a  man,  not  to  be 
coerced  by  custom  or  bound  by  any  chains  save  those  he 
himself  had  forged  to  bind  his  heart  before  God. 

For  a  time  he  would  not  allow  himself  to  think  of  the 


The  Shadow  Lifts  305 

future,  preferring  to  live  thus  with  the  world  completely 
shut  away.  Buoyantly,  jubilantly,  he  tramped  the  hills 
and  visited  the  homes  where  he  had  been  wont  to  bring 
help  and  often  comforts,  and  found  himself  therein  lauded 
and  idolized  as  few  of  his  station  ever  are. 
"  Again  he  was  "Doctah  Thryng,"  and  the  love  that 
accompanied  the  title,  in  the  hearts  of  those  mountain 
people,  was  regal.  He  enjoyed  his  little  farm,  and  the 
gathering  of  his  first  "crap,"  counting  his  bundles  of 
fodder  and  his  bushels  of  corn.  Sometimes  he  rode  with 
Cassandra,  visiting  the  old  haunts ;  at  such  times  David 
insisted  that  the  boy  be  left  with  the  grandmother  or  that 
Martha  should  come  up  to  mind  him,  that  he  might  have 
his  wife  free  and  quite  to  himself  as  in  their  first  days. 

But  all  this  time,  although  silent  about  it,  Cassandra 
kept  in  her  heart  the  thought  of  David's  real  state.  She 
felt  he  was  playing  a  part  to  bring  her  joy,  and  was  grate- 
ful, but  she  knew  he  must  return  to  his  own  world  and  live 
his  own  life.  Therefore  she  existed  in  a  state  of  breathless 
suspense,  to  enjoy  these  moments  to  the  fullest,  —  not  to 
miss  or  mar  an  instant  of  the  blessed  time  while  it  lasted. 

The  days  were  flying  —  flying  —  so  rapidly  she  dared 
not  think,  and  here  was  splendid  October  trailing  her 
wonderful  draperies  over  the  hills  like  a  lavish  princess. 
When  would  David  speak  ?  But  perhaps  he  was  waiting 
for  her  to  speak  first  ?  If  so,  how  long  ought  she  to  remain 
silent  ?  Often  he  caught  the  wistful  look  in  her  eyes,  and 
half  divined  the  meaning. 

One  day  when  they  had  wandered  up  her  father's  path, 
and  the  mnd  came  in  warm,  soft  gusts,  sweeping  over  the 
miles  of  splendor  from  the  sea,  David  drew  her  to  him, 
determined  to  win  from  her  a  full  expression. 

"What  is  it,  Cassandra?  Open  your  heart.  Don't 
shut  anything  away  from  me.  What  have  you  been 
dreaming  lately  .f^" 

"You  have  never  said  a  word  of  fault  with  me  yet, 
David  —  for  what  I  did,  going  away  off  there  and  not 
waiting  quietly  until  you  could  come  back,  as  you  wrote 
me  to  do." 

"That  was  the  bravest,  finest  thing  you  ever  did  —  but 
one."     He  was  thinking  of  her  renunciation. 

"You  are  so  good  to  forgive  me,  David.    In  one  way  it 


/ 


306  The  Mountain  Girl 

was  better  that  I  went,  because  it  made  me  understand  as 
I  never  could  have  done  otherwise.  You  would  never  have 
told  me,  but  now  I  know." 

'*  Unfold  a  little  of  this  wisdom,  so  I  may  judge  of  its 
value." 

"Can  you,  David  .^^  I'm  afraid  not.  You  have  a  way 
of  bewildering  me,  so  I  can't  see  the  rights  and  wrongs  of 
things  myself.  But  there  !  It  is  just  part  of  the  dif- 
ference. Why,  even  the  nursemaids  over  there,  and  Hetty 
Giles,  the  landlady's  daughter,  are  wiser  than  I.  I  came 
to  see  it  every  instant,  the  difference  between  you  and 
me  —  between  our  two  worlds.  David,  how  did  you  ever 
dare  marry  me  ? 

He  only  laughed  happily  and  kissed  her.  "Tell  it  all,'* 
he  said  tenderly. 

"I  felt  it  first  when  I  went  to  the  town  house.  It  was 
hard  to  find  the  address.  I  only  had  Mr.  Stretton's." 
David  set  his  teeth  grimly  in  anger  at  himself  at  giving  her 
only  his  lawyer's  address,  in  stupid  fear  lest  her  letters 
betray  him  to  his  mother  and  sister. 

"Now,  do  not  hide  one  thing  from  me  —  not  one,"  he 
said  sternly,  and  she  continued,  with  a  conscientious  fear 
of  disobedience,  to  open  her  heart. 

"I  saw  by  the  look  in  the  old  man's  eyes  that  I  had  not 
done  the  right  thing,  coming  in  that  way  with  a  baby  in 
my  arms,  like  a  beggar.  I  saw  he  was  very  curious,  and 
I  was  that  proud  I  didn't  know  what  to  tell  him  I  had  come 
for,  when  I  found  you  were  not  there,  so  when  he  said 
artists  often  came  to  see  the  gallery,  I  said  I  had  come  to 
see  the  gallery;  and  David,  I  didn't  even  know  what  a 
gallery  was.  I  thought  it  was  a  high  piazza  around  a 
house,  and  I  found  it  was  a  great  room  full  of  pictures. 
I  was  that  ignorant. 

"I  felt  like  I  was  some  wild  creature  that  had  got  lost 
in  that  splendid  palace  and  didn't  know  where  to  run  to 
get  away;  and  they  all  fixed  their  eyes  on  me  as  if  they 
were  saying :  *  How  does  she  dare  come  here  ?  She  isn't 
one  of  us  ! '  and  one  was  a  boy  who  looked  like  you.  The 
old  man  kept  saying  how  like  it  was  to  the  new  Lord 
Thryng,  and  it  made  me  cold  to  hear  it,  —  so  cold  that 
after  I  had  escaped  from  there  and  was  out  in  the  sun,  my 
teeth  chattered." 


The  Shadow  Lifts  307 

David  sat  silent  and  humbled;  at  last  he  said:  "Go 
on,  Cassandra.     Don't  cover  up  anything." 

"When  I  got  back  to  the  hotel,  everything  seemed  so 
splendid  and  stuffy  and  horrid  —  and  every  way  I  turned 
it  seemed  as  if  those  dead  ancestors  of  yours  were  there 
staring  at  me  still ;  and  I  thought  what  right  had  they 
over  the  living  that  they  dared  stand  between  you  and  me ; 
and  I  was  angry."  She  stirred  in  his  arms,  and  pressed 
closer  to  him.  "David  —  forgive  me  —  I  can't  tell  it 
over  —  it  hurts  me." 

"Go  on,"  he  said  hoarsely. 

"The  old  man  told  me  what  was  expected  of  you  because 
of  them  —  how  your  mother  wished  you  to  marry  a  great 
lady  —  and  I  knew  they  could  never  have  heard  of  me  — 
and  I  forgot  to  eat  my  dinner  and  stayed  in  my  room  and 
fought  and  fought  with  myself  —  I'm  sorry  I  felt  that  way, 
David.  Don't  mind.  I  understand  now."  She  put  up 
her  hand  and  touched  his  cheek,  and  he  took  it  in  his  and 
kissed  it.     Then  she  laughed  a  sad  little  laugh. 

"Remember  that  funny  little  old  silver  teapot.  Mother 
brought  it  to  me  before  I  left,  and  I  took  it  with  me  !  She 
is  so  proud  of  our  family,  although  she  has  only  that  poor 
little  pot  to  show  for  it,  with  its  nose  all  melted  off  to  make 
silver  bullets  sure  to  kill.  Did  you  know  it  was  one  of 
those  bullets  Frale  tried  to  kill  you  with  ?  Oh,  David, 
David!" 

"And  yet  your  mother  is  right,  dear.  That  little 
wrecked  bit  of  silver  helps  to  interpret  you  —  indicates 
your  ancestors  —  how  you  come  to  be  you  —  just  as  you 
are.  How  could  I  ever  have  loved  you,  if  you  had  been 
different  from  what  you  are  ?" 

For  a  long  moment  she  lay  still  —  scarcely  breathing  — 
then  she  lifted  her  head  and  looked  in  his  eyes.  One  of  her 
silences  was  on  her,  and  while  her  lips  trembled  as  if  to 
speak,  she  said  no  word.  He  tried  to  draw  her  to  him 
again,  but  she  held  him  off. 

"Then  tell  me  what  it  is,"  he  said  gently.  But  she  only 
shook  her  head  and  rose  to  walk  away  from  him.  He  did 
not  try  to  call  her  back  to  him,  respecting  her  silence,  and 
she  moved  on  up  the  path  with  long,  swift  steps. 

When  she  returned,  he  held  out  his  arms  to  her,  but  she 
stood  before  him  looking  down  into  his  eyes,  "I  couldn't 


308  The  Mountain  Girl 

tell  you  sitting  there  with  your  arms  around  me,  David, 
and  what  I  have  to  say  must  be  said  now ;  I  may  never  be 
strong  enough  to  say  it  another  time,  and  it  must  be  said." 

Then  she  told  him  all  that  had  occurred  while  she  was  in 
Queensderry,  from  the  moment  she  came,  going  down  into 
her  heart  and  revealing  the  hidden  thoughts  never  before 
expressed  even  to  herself,  while  he  gazed  back  into  her  eyes 
fascinated  by  her  spiritual  beauty  which  was  her  power. 

She  told  of  the  chatter  of  Hetty  Giles,  and  how  she  had 
pointed  out  the  beautiful  lady  his  mother  wished  him  to 
marry  —  and  how  slowly  everything  had  dawned  upon 
her  —  the  real  differences.  Of  the  guests  she  had  seen  on 
the  Daneshead  terrace  and  how  they  wore  such  lovely 
dresses  and  moved  so  easily  and  laughed  and  talked  all  at 
once,  as  if  they  were  used  to  it  all,  and  perhaps  wore  such 
charming  things  for  every  day  —  the  wonderful  colors 
and  wide,  beautiful  hats  with  plumes  —  and  how  even  the 
servants  wore  pretty  clothes  and  went  about  as  if  they  all 
knew  how  to  do  things,  passing  cups  and  plates. 

Then  she  told  of  her  talk  with  his  mother  and  how  care- 
fully she  had  guarded  her  tongue  lest  a  word  escape  her 
he  would  rather  not  have  had  her  speak.  "I  had  wronged 
you  in  not  telling  you  you  had  a  son,  and  I  meant  to  leave 
him  with  your  mother  so  he  could  be  raised  right."  She 
paused,  and  put  her  hand  to  her  throat,  then  went  bravely 
on.  "Your  mother  was  kind  —  she  gave  me  wine  —  she 
brought  it  to  me  herself.  I  knew  what  I  ought  to  do,  but 
I  wasn't  strong  enough.  It  seemed  as  if  something  here 
in  my  breast  was  bleeding,  and  my  baby  would  die  if  I 
did  it.  When  I  came  out,  he  was  in  your  sister's  arms  and 
had  been  crying,  and  it  seemed  as  if  all  I  had  planned  had 
happened,  and  I  took  him  and  carried  him  away  quickly. 
I  couldn't  go  fast  enough,  and  I  left  the  inn  that  night. 
The  world  seemed  all  like  Vanity  Fair.^' 

David  rose  and  stood  before  her  looking  down  into  her 
eyes.  He  could  not  control  his  voice  in  speaking,  and  she 
felt  his  hands  quiver  as  they  rested  on  her  shoulders. 
"When  did  you  read  that  book,  Cassandra.?  Where  did 
you  find  it  ?"  he  asked,  in  dismay. 

"Among  your  books  in  the  cabin.  I  felt  at  first  that  it 
must  be  a  kind  of  a  disgrace  to  be  a  lord  —  as  if  every  one 
who  had  a  title  or  education  must  be  mean  and  low,  and 


The  Shadow  Lifts  309 

all  the  rest  of  the  world  over  there  must  be  fools;  but 
because  of  you,  David,  I  knew  better  than  to  believe  that. 
Your  mother  is  not  like  those  women,  either.  She  was 
kind  and  beautiful,  and  —  I  —  loved  her,  but  all  the  more 
I  saw  the  difference.  But  now  you  have  come  to  me  and 
made  me  strong,  I  can  do  it.  Everything  has  grown  clear 
to  me  again,  and  I  see  how  you  gave  yourself  to  me  —  to 
save  me  —  when  you  did  not  dream  of  what  was  to  be  for 
you  in  the  future;  and  out  of  your  giving  has  come  the 
—  little  son,  and  he  is  yours.  Wait !  Don't  take  me  in 
your  arms."  She  placed  her  hands  on  his  breast  and  held 
him  from  her. 

"So  it  was  just  now  —  when  you  spoke  as  if  people 
would  understand  me  better  because  of  that  little  silver 
pot,  showing  I  had  somewhere  in  the  past  a  name  and  a 
family  like  theirs  over  there  —  I  thought  of  'Vanity  Fair,' 
and  I  hated  it.  I  wish  you  had  never  seen  it.  There  is, 
nor  has  been,  nothing  on  earth  to  make  me  possible  for 
you,  now  —  your  inheritance  has  come  to  you.  I  have 
a  pride,  too,  David,  a  different  kind  of  pride  from  theirs. 
You  loved  me  first,  I  know,  as  I  was  —  just  me.  It  was 
a  foolish  love  for  you  to  have,  David  dear,  —  but  I  know 
it  is  true ;  you  could  not  have  given  yourself  to  save  me 
else,  and  I  like  to  keep  that  thought  of  you  in  my  heart, 
big  and  noble  and  true — that  you  did  love  just  me." 
She  faltered,  but  still  held  him  from  her.  "Do  you  think 
I  would  not  do  all  I  can  to  keep  from  spoiling  your  life 
over  there  "^  " 

"Stop,  stop.  It  is  enough,"  he  cried.  In  spite  of  her- 
self, he  took  her  hands  in  his  and  drew  her  to  him  in  peni- 
tent tenderness.  "I'm  no  great  lord  with  wide  distances 
between  me  and  your  mountain  world  here,  Cassandra; 
never  think  it.  I'm  tremendously  near  to  the  soul  of 
things,  and  the  man  of  the  wilderness  is  strong  in  me. 
One  thing  you  have  not  touched  upon.  Tell  me,  what 
did  Frale  say  or  do  to  you  to  so  trouble  you  and  send  you 
off?" 

She  stirred  in  his  arms  and  waited,  then  murmured, 
"He pestered  me." 

"Explain.     Did  he  come  often  ?" 

"Oh,  no.  He  —  I  —  he  came  one  evening  up  to  our 
cabin,  and  —  I  sent  him  off  and  started  next  day." 


310  The  Mountain  Girl 

*'  But  explain,  dearest.    How  did  he  act  ?    What  was  it  ?  " 

She  was  silent,  but  drew  her  husband's  head  down  and 
hid  her  face  in  his  neck.  "There  !  Never  mind,  love. 
You  needn't  tell  me  if  you  don't  wish." 

"He  kissed  me  and  held  me  in  his  arms  like  they  were 
iron  bands  —  and  I  hated  it.  He  said  you  had  gone  away 
never  to  come  back,  and  that  the  whole  mountain  side  knew 
it ;  and  that  he  had  a  right  to  come  and  claim  my  promise 
to  him.  Oh,  David,  David,  this  is  the  last.  I  have  kept 
nothing  back  from  you  now,  nothing.  My  heart  cried  out 
for  you  —  like  I  heard  you  call  —  and  I  went  —  to  —  to 
prove  to  them  all  that  word  was  a  lie.  I  knew  nothing 
they  said  here  could  touch  you,  but  I  couldn't  bear  that 
the  meanest  hound  living  should  dare  think  wrong  of  you. 
Seems  like  I  would  have  done  it  if  I  had  had  to  crawl  on 
my  knees  and  swim  the  ocean." 

"My  fingers  tingle  to  grasp  the  throat  of  that  young 
man.  I  fought  him  for  you  once,  and  if  it  hadn't  been  for 
a  rolling  stone  under  my  foot,  it  would  have  been  death 
for  one  of  us.  As  it  was,  I  won  —  with  you  to  save  me 
—  bless  you." 

"Butnow,  David— " 

"Ah,  but  now  —  what  ?     Are  you  happy  ?  " 

"That  isn't  what  I  mean.     You  have  your  future  — " 

"I  have  my  now.  It  is  all  we  ever  have.  The  past  is 
gone,  and  lives  only  in  our  memories,  and  the  future  exists 
only  in  anticipation ;  but  now  —  now  is  all  we  have  or 
can  have.     Live  in  it  and  love  in  it  and  be  happy." 

"But  we  must  be  wise.  We've  got  to  face  it  sometime. 
Let  —  me  help  you  —  now  while  I  have  the  strength," 
she  pleaded  earnestly. 

But  David  only  laughed  out  joyously,  and  looked  at  his 
wife  until  she  turned  her  face  away  from  him.  "Look 
at  me,"  he  cried.  "Dear,  troubled  eyes.  Tears?  Tears 
in  them  ?  Love,  you  have  kept  nothing  back  this  time, 
and  now  it  is  my  turn,  but  I  shall  keep  something  back 
from  you.  I'm  not  going  to  reprove  your  idolatry  by  turn- 
ing iconoclast  and  throwing  your  miserable  old  idol  down 
from  his  pedestal  all  at  once.  I  tell  you  what  it  is,  though, 
if  I  could  feel  that  I  was  worthy  of  your  smallest  finger  — 
that  I  deserved  only  one  of  those  big  tears  —  there  — 
there  —  there !    Listen,  dearest,  I'll  come  to  the  point. 


The  Shadow  Lifts  311 

"Who  is  it  now,  making  so  much  of  the  estimates  of 
the  world  ?  Somehow  our  viewpoints  have  got  mixed. 
Sacrifice  myself  ?  Why,  Cassandra,  if  I  were  to  lose  you 
out  of  my  life,  I  should  be  a  broken-hearted  man.  What 
did  I  sacrifice  ?  Phantoms,  vanities,  and  emptiness.  Oh, 
Cassandra,  Cassandra,  my  priestess  of  all  that  is  good  ! 
Open  your  eyes,  love,  and  see  as  I  see  —  as  you  have 
taught  me  to  see. 

"  Much  that  we  strive  for  and  reckon  as  gain  is  really 
worthless.  Why,  sweet,  I  would  far,  far  rather  have  you 
at  your  loom  for  the  mother  of  my  son,  than  Lady  Clara 
at  her  piano.  Your  heritage  of  the  great  nature  —  the 
far-seeing  —  the  trusting  spirit  —  harboring  no  evil  and 
construing  all  things  to  righteousness  —  going  out  into  the 
world  and  finding  among  all  the  dust  and  dross,  even  of 
centuries,  only  the  pure  gold  —  the  eye  that  sees  into  a 
man's  soul,  searching  out  the  true  and  lovely  qualities 
there  and  transmuting  all  the  rest  into  pure  metal  —  my 
own  soul's  alchemist  —  your  heritage  is  the  secret  of 
power." 

'*!  don't  believe  I  understand  all  you  are  saying,  David. 
I  only  see  that  I  have  a  very  hard  task  before  me,  and  now  I 
know  it  is  hard  for  you,  too.  Your  mother  made  it  clear  to 
me  that  your  true  place  is  not  living  here  as  a  doctor,  even 
though  you  do  so  much  good  among  us.  I  saw  all  at  once 
that  men  are  born  each  to  fill  a  place  in  the  world,  and  I 
think  each  man's  measure  should  be  the  height  of  his  own 
power  and  ability,  nothing  lower  than  that;   and  I  see  it 

—  your  power  will  be  there,  not  here,  where  it  must  be 
limited  by  our  limits  and  ignorance.  That  is  your  own 
country  over  there.  It  claims  you  —  and  I  —  I  —  there 
is  the  difference,  you  know.  Think  of  your  mother,  and 
then  of  mine.  David,  I  must  not  —  Oh,  David  !  You 
must  be  unhampered  —  free  —  what  can  I  —  what  can 
wedo.^" 

"We  can  just  go  down  the  mountain,  sane  beings,  to 
our  own  little  cabin,  belonging  to  each  other  first  of  all." 
He  took  her  hand  and  led  her  along  the  path,  carpeted  with 
pine  needles  and  fallen  leaves.  "  And  then,  when  you  are 
ready  and  willing  —  not  before,  love  —  we  will  go  home 

—  to  my  home  —  just  like  this,  together." 

She  caught  her  breath.     "Listen,  for  I  am  seeing  visions 


312  The  Mountain  Girl 

too,  now,  as  you  have  taught  me.  I  will  lead  you  through 
those  halls  and  show  you  to  all  those  dead  ancestors,  and 
I  will  dress  you  in  a  silken  gown,  the  color  of  the  evening 
star  we  used  to  watch  together  from  our  cabin  door,  and 
around  your  neck  I  will  hang  the  yellow  pearls  that  have 
been  worn  by  all  those  great  ladies  who  stared  at  you  from 
out  their  frames  of  gold  the  day  you  came  alone  and 
unrecognized,  bearing  your  priceless  gift  in  your  arms. 
You  shall  wear  the  rich  old  lace  of  the  family  on  your 
bosom,  and  the  jewelled  coronet  on  your  head ;  and  no  one 
will  see  the  silk  and  the  jewels  and  the  lace,  for  looking  at 
you  and  at  the  gift  you  bring. 

*'No,  don't  speak ;  it  is  my  turn  now  to  see  the  pictures. 
All  will  be  yours,  whatever  you  see  and  touch  in  those 
stately  homes  —  for  you  will  be  the  Lady  Thryng,  and, 
being  the  Lady  Thryng,  you  will  be  no  more  wonderful 
or  beautiful  than  you  were  when  you  climbed  to  me, 
following  my  flute  notes,  or  w^hen  you  bent  between  me 
and  the  fire  preparing  my  supper,  or  when  you  were  weav- 
ing at  your  loom,  or  when  you  came  to  me  from  our  cabin 
door  with  your  arms  outstretched  and  the  light  of  all  the 
stars  of  heaven  in  your  eyes." 

Then  they  were  silent,  a  long  silence,  until,  seated  to- 
gether in  their  cabin  before  a  bright  log  fire,  as  she  held 
their  baby  to  her  breast,  Cassandra  broke  the  stillness. 

"Now  I  see  it  better,  David.  As  you  came  here  and 
lived  my  life,  and  loved  me  just  as  I  was  —  so  to  be  truly 
one,  I  must  go  with  you  and  live  your  life.  I  must  not 
fail  you  there.'* 

"You  have  been  tried  as  by  fire  and  have  not  failed  — 
nor  are  you  the  kind  of  woman  who  ever  fails." 

Then  she  smiled  up  at  him  one  of  those  rare  and  fleeting 
smiles  that  always  touched  David  with  poignant  pleasure, 
and  said  :  "I  think  I  understand  now.  God  meant  us  to 
feel  this  way,  when  he  married  us  to  each  other." 


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